/ 


CHILDREN  OF  TO-MORROW 


1  Is  that  true,  Rose  ?     Do  you  wish  me  to  keep  out  ?  ' 


CHILDREN  OF 
TO-MORROW 


BY 

CLARA  E.  LAUGHLIN 

AUTHOR  OF  "  FELICITY'" 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 

LUCIUS  W.  HITCHCOCK 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK:::::::::::::::::::::  191 1 


COPYRIGHT,  1911,  BY 
CLARA  E.  LAUGHLIN 


Published  August,  1911 


TO 

W.  W.   L. 


2136859 


CONTENTS 
PART  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     THE  GOVERNOR'S  FAMILY 3 

II.     THE  WOMAN  WHO  HELPED    ....  19 

III.  OLIVIA 36 

IV.  "NoR  EVER  ANY  MORE" 50 

V.    THE  PRICE  THAT  WAS  PAID  ....  72 

PART  II 

VI.     FIFTEEN  YEARS  LATER 83 

VII.    THE  MARIONETTES 102 

VIII.     EMILY  INSISTS  ON  TEMPTING  FATE      .  118 

IX.    Two  DREAMERS  MEET 138 

X.    CATHERINE  AND  THE  CREHORES  ...  158 

XI.    THE  SWORD  FALLS 177 

vii 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XII.  "THE   OBLIGATION  OF  THE  TRUTH      .  196 

XIII.  THE  WEAK  AND  THE  STRONG      .     .     .  214 

XIV.  "JACK  THE  GIANT-KILLER"    ....  234 
XV.     IN  THE  MORNING 254 

XVI.    LOVE'S  FOOL 262 

XVII.     OLD  AND  NEW  CHIVALRY 282 

XVIII.     PENALTY  AND  PROFIT 298 

XIX.     How  EMILY  WAITED 309 

XX.     Lucius  HAS  A  PARTY 319 

XXI.    THE  NIGHT  COURT 334 

XXII.  "ANY  FOOL  CAN  DESTROY"      ....  351 

XXIII.  A  WEDDING 364 

XXIV.  TELLING  THE  TRUTH 380 

XXV.     "FED  TO  THE  WOLVES" 395 

XXVI.  "PRACTICAL  POLITICS"   ......  408 

XXVII.  "WHAT  A  BRAVE  ADVENTURE  LIFE  Is"  431 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Is  that  true,  Rose  ?     Do  you  wish  me  to  keep 
out  ?  "    (See  page  376) Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


The   fiercest   pirate    might  well    have    envied    his 

manner  and  his  vocabulary 106 

"  Miss   Innes   is   outside — in   a   cab — "  he    began 

bashfully 328 

As  he  saw  the  crowd  gathering  he  kept  raising  his 

voice.     But  he  never  shouted 422 


PART  I 


CHILDREN  OF  TO-MORROW 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  GOVERNOR'S  FAMILY 

"TT'S  going  to  be  a  hard  summer;  I  doubt  if  I 
shall  be  able  to  get  away  for  more  than  a  day 
or  two — a  Saturday  and  Sunday — at  a  time." 

The  Governor  and  his  family  had  finished  dining 
and  were  in  the  library  of  the  old  Mansion  which 
had  been  their  home  for  the  past  six  months. 

It  was  the  end  of  June,  and  very  hot.  School 
sessions  were  over;  social  activities  had  lapsed; 
" everybody'* — in  Mrs.  Innes's  phrase — had  gone 
or  was  on  the  eve  of  going  away.  It  behooved  the 
State's  first  family,  she  thought,  to  consider  how 
the  vacation  from  official  cares  should  be  spent. 

She  looked  up  sharply  when  the  Governor  said 
he  could  not  get  away. 

"Nonsense!"  she  said.  "You  didn't  undertake 
to  kill  yourself  for  the  State/* 

"I  undertook  to  discharge  the  duties  of  the 
governorship,"  he  answered,  quietly;  "and  I 

3 


Children  of  ToMorrow 

didn't  qualify:  'unless  they  interfere  with  my 
pleasure.' ' 

"This  isn't  your  pleasure — it's  your  necessary 
rest,  and  your  obligation  to  your  family." 

The  Governor  smiled  understandingly. 

"I'm  not  tired,  Julia,"  he  said.  "I — perhaps 
it's  hard  for  you  to  understand,  but  I'm  not  on 
this  job  for  the  pay,  or  even  for  the  honor,  but 
for  the  opportunity  it  gives  me  to  do  what  I  want 
to  do  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world.  I'd 
rather  be  here — where  my  chance  is — than  any- 
where. But  I  want  you  to  go  any  place  you 
choose;  and  I  give  you  my  word  that  a  governor's 
family  banks  just  as  strong  without  him  as  if 
they  had  him  along  for  proof." 

If  Mrs.  Innes  was  aware  of  the  irony  in  her 
husband's  speech,  she  ignored  it;  even  he  could 
never  tell  just  what  she  comprehended. 

"And  what  will  people  say!  The  Governor's 
family  at  the  mountains  or  sea-shore,  enjoying 
themselves,  and  the  Governor  alone  in  the  hot, 
deserted  Capital.  /  know  how  people  talk!" 

A  shadow  of  impatience  clouded  the  Governor's 
eyes  for  a  moment,  then  lifted  again.  The  futil- 
ity, the  wasted  energy,  of  allowing  one's  self  to 
become  irritated  with  a  life  companion  who 
"never  could  understand"! 

"Anybody  whose  opinion  matters — or  ought  to 
matter,"  he  rejoined,  "knows  what  the  situation 

4 


The  Governor's  Family 

here  is,  this  summer;  knows  that  I'd  be  a  fool  to 
try  to  get  away  from  it;  and  a  selfish  wretch  if  I 
let  you  and  the  children  stay  here  because  I  have 
to.  You've  worked  pretty  hard  on  this  job  your- 
self, Julia" — here,  again,  was  a  covert  sarcasm 
which  the  Governor  would  never  know  if  his 
wife  understood — "and  a  change  will  do  you  good. 
I  don't  suppose  you'll  rest — you'll  carry  the  job 
with  you  wherever  you  go — but  the  change  will 
help.  And  the  children  need  it,  too.  Now, 
where  do  you  want  to  go  ? " 

The  conversation  had  reached  a  stage  where 
the  boys  felt  interested.  The  course  of  it  hitherto 
had  been  familiarly  dull.  Through  long  acquaint- 
ance with  discussion  in  their  family  circle,  they 
had  learned  that  always,  at  the  outset,  just  about 
so  much  time  was  spent  by  their  father  in  per- 
suading their  mother  to  do  what  he  knew  she  had 
all  along  intended,  and  by  their  mother  in  en- 
deavoring to  persuade  their  father  to  do  what  she 
knew  all  along  there  was  not  the  remotest  chance 
of  his  doing.  The  boys  had  cultivated  the  fac- 
ulty of  withdrawing  themselves  from  the  dull 
preliminaries  and,  almost  by  instinct,  return- 
ing to  the  argument  when  it  was  ready  really  to 
begin. 

They  were  instantly  alert  when  their  father 
asked:  "Where  do  you  want  to  go  ?" 

"Coney  Island!"  said  Johnny  promptly. 

5 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

His  father  smiled.  "For  a  day,  perhaps,"  he 
said;  "but  not  for  all  summer." 

Johnny  looked  surprised.  "Why,  Pop!"  he 
cried,  starting  to  explain. 

"Johnny!" 

"Oh,  cheese  it,  Mom — I  mean,  excuse  me;  but 
I  can't  always  remember  to  say  pop-pa!" 

"And  I  can't  always  remember  whom  you 
mean  when  you  do  say  it,"  his  father  chuckled. 

Mrs.  Innes  looked  at  her  husband  reprovingly. 
"Well,  I  consider  'Pop'  a  most  undignified  and 
disrespectful  way  of  addressing  you,"  she  said, 
"and  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  kind  of  bringing 
up  people  must  think  I  give  my  children.  It  was 
bad  enough  before  we  came  here;  but  now,  in 
our  position — "  Her  voice  trailed  off  into  in- 
definite protest. 

Again  the  brief  shadow  of  irritation  in  her 
husband's  eyes,  quickly  succeeded  by  the  ex- 
pression: Oh,  well!  what  is  the  use? 

"Say  'pop-pa,'  Johnny,  and  go  ahead,"  he 
adjured  his  son.  And  so  entirely  respectful  were 
his  tone  and  manner  that  again  it  was  impossible 
to  tell  if  Mrs.  Innes  knew  his  acquiescence  came 
from  courtesy  and  not  from  conviction. 

Johnny  continued  his  plea  for  a  vacation 
"where  you  can  have  some  fun."  Davy  thought 
they  should  go  where  they  could  see  something 
new  and  instructive — "like  the  Rocky  Moun- 

6 


The  Governor's  Family 

tains."  Mrs.  Innes  wanted  "good  society;  not 
a  place  where  there  are  just  hotels  and  transients, 
but  a  place  where  there  are  lovely  summer  homes. 
Hotels  are  so  promiscuous.'* 

"They  have  ice-cream  every  day,"  reminded 
Johnny,  who  was  willing  to  overlook  any  degree 
of  promiscuity  for  his  stomach's  sake;  though, 
truth  to  tell,  Johnny  loved  promiscuity  next  best 
to  ice-cream. 

The  Governor's  daughter  sat  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair. 

"Well,  Rosie,"  he  said,  "how  about  you?" 

"No  use  asking  that,"  her  mother  interposed; 
"she  never  has  any  choice." 

"I  resent  that,  on  Rosie's  behalf,"  her  father 
answered.  "You  have  a  choice — haven't  you, 
sweetest  ? " 

Rose  hugged  her  father  before  she  replied. 
"Not  too  far  away  from  jyow,"  she  whispered. 

"There!  I  knew  it!  Who  says  our  sister-bud 
hasn't  decided  notions  ?" 

Mrs.  Innes's  lip  curled  scornfully.  "If  she 
were  a  boy,  you'd  talk  up  to  her  sharply  enough 
and  tell  her  to  have  some  mind  of  her  own.  But 
as  she's  a  girl,  you  think  she's  better  without 
one." 

"Are  you  without  a  mind,  my  Rose?  Let  me 
look  at  you!"  His  hand  beneath  her  delicate 
chin,  he  studied  the  fair,  flower-like  little  face  for 

7 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

a  moment,  then  kissed  her  softly  on  each  eyelid 
and  drew  her  closer  into  his  arms. 

Governor  Lyman  Innes  was  a  slender  man, 
rather  under  than  over  medium  height,  and  shaped 
on  aristocratic  lines.  His  dark  hair  was  thinning, 
and  beginning  to  be  frosted  with  gray.  He  had 
flashing  dark  eyes,  and  hands  noticeably  fine  and 
expressive.  The  mouth  his  small  dark  mustache 
only  partly  concealed  was  a  little  weak,  a  little 
sensuous;  but  one  felt  that  the  spirit  expressed 
in  the  remarkable  eyes  was  the  spirit  in  control. 
For  the  rest,  one's  first  impression  of  him  took 
note  of  the  facts  that  he  was  immaculately  groomed 
and  that  he  was  a  punctiliously  neat  dresser. 

Lyman  Innes  was  in  his  forty-ninth  year.  He 
was  born  of  excellent  family,  but  left  fatherless  at 
an  early  age  and  obliged  to  hew  his  own  way  in 
the  world.  The  business  he  entered  as  an  errand 
boy  eventually  admitted  him  to  partnership  and 
soon  thereafter  passed  into  his  control.  In  his 
veins  was  the  blood  of  ancestors  who  had  hated 
the  persecution  of  the  Quakers,  and  the  blood  of 
a  great-grandfather  who  had  signed  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence,  and  of  a  grandfather  who 
had  been  one  of  the  earliest  Abolitionists  in  New 
England.  It  was  his  heritage  to  hate  injustice; 
and  it  was  the  name  he  had  made  himself  as  a 
considerate  and  fair  employer  which  went  far 
toward  getting  him  the  governorship  in  this  State 

8 


The  Governor's  Family 

where  labor  troubles  had  for  some  time  threatened 
to  become  openly  serious. 

Julia  Livingston  had  brought  him  money.  She 
had  been  considered  a  clever  girl  and  most  people 
believed  she  would  make  an  excellent  helpmeet 
for  Lyman  Innes,  already — when  he  married — a 
well-established  and  a  "rising"  man.  But  their 
dream  of  success  was  not  the  same  dream.  She 
was  everywhere  spoken  of  as  having  been  a  great 
aid  to  her  husband,  with  her  energy,  her  skill  in 
practical  affairs,  her  ambition  for  him.  But  he 
knew — if  she  did  not — that  all  she  shared  in  his 
success  was  the  enjoyment  of  its  emoluments. 
She  was  a  thin,  sharp  woman  with  pale-blue  eyes 
and  frizzy  light  hair.  Her  speech  was  quick  and 
nervous,  leading  her  into  many  bursts  of  tactless- 
ness. It  was  her  firm  conviction  that  her  methods 
— of  housekeeping,  of  entertaining,  of  dressing, 
of  bringing  up  her  children  and  of  managing  her 
husband — were  superior  to  any  other  methods 
conceivable.  This  gave  her  a  certain  unassailable 
satisfaction,  but  contributed  nothing  appreciable 
to  her  popularity. 

David  Innes  was  fair,  like  his  mother.  He  shared 
others  of  her  characteristics,  too.  In  the  main, 
she  approved  of  Davy.  But  on  those  infrequent 
occasions  when  their  wills  clashed,  the  struggle 
was  bitter  indeed  because  one  will  was  moulded 
by  purposes  so  like  those  that  moulded  the  other. 

9 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

The  most  frequent  cause  of  conflict  between 
Davy  and  his  mother  was  Johnny.  Davy  was 
past  fifteen;  Johnny  was  thirteen  and  a  half,  a 
winsome  lad,  full  of  flashing  charm.  His  great 
dark  eyes  were  sometimes  all  melting  tenderness 
and  irresistible  appeal,  but  oftener  dancing  with 
unmalicious  mischief  and  the  sheer  joyousness  of 
being  alive.  A  strikingly  white,  fine  skin  had 
Johnny,  and  the  whitest  of  white  teeth;  wrhile  his 
dark  hair  had,  to  his  intense  disgust,  a  slight  ten- 
dency to  curl — to  conceal  which  Johnny  usually 
wheedled  the  barber  into  cropping  his  head  till 
it  looked  almost  shaved.  Every  visit  he  made  to 
the  barber's  was  the  precursor  of  a  maternal 
storm  into  which  Davy  was  regularly  drawn  by 
his  defence  of  Johnny's  attitude  toward  curly  hair. 

That  ancestor  of  Lyman  Innes's  who  had  de- 
fended Quakers  was  a  gay  Cavalier;  having  no 
particular  religion  of  his  own  which  he  considered 
the  only  true  one,  he  had  a  dislike  of  seeing 
any  man's  religion  interfered  with.  His  portrait, 
copied  from  one  in  the  ancestral  Hall  overseas, 
was  one  of  Lyman  Innes's  most  treasured  posses- 
sions. It  hung  in  the  library  of  the  Governor's 
Mansion — one  of  the  personal  belongings  brought 
hither  to  create  an  atmosphere  more  like  home — 
and  Johnny  was  frequently  adjured  by  his  father 
to  consider  the  flowing  curls  of  that  gallant  gen- 
tleman whose  behavior  he  so  greatly  admired. 

10 


The  Governor's  Family 

But  no!  "They're  all  right  if  you  like  'em," 
Johnny  agreed;  "but  I  don't."  Nevertheless,  he 
was  very  like  that  curled  Cavalier,  even  with  his 
head  most  ruthlessly  cropped;  very  like  all  those 
among  his  ancestry  who  had  worn  plumed  hats 
and  jewelled  swords;  who  had  fought  heartily, 
gamed  heavily,  drunk  deeply,  sung  jovially,  loved 
tempestuously  (and  often),  and  been  the  dear  par- 
ticular comrade  of  every  one  except  those  with 
whom  they  had  a  temperamental  quarrel.  Not 
only  was  life  extraordinarily  interesting — every 
moment  of  it — to  Johnny;  but,  also,  he  made  it 
very  vivid  even  to  prosaic  Davy,  because  Davy 
adored  him  so. 

The  annals  of  the  two  brothers,  as  treasured  by 
their  wide  family  circle  unto  the  third  and  fourth 
remove  of  cousinship,  were  very  rich  in  illuminat- 
ing anecdote;  as,  for  example:  When  Johnny  was 
about  six,  his  father,  on  leaving  the  house  one  sum- 
mer morning,  noted  the  man-of-all-work  cutting 
the  grass  on  their  front  lawn.  "Take  that  nice 
sweet  grass  down  to  your  '  Bossy'  in  the  back  lot," 
he  had  directed  Johnny.  "Get  a  small  basket 
that  you  can  carry  comfortably — or  fill  a  bigger 
one  and  haul  it  on  your  wagon."  "Yes,  sir," 
said  Johnny,  dutifully.  Johnny  always  agreed  to 
anything — at  the  time;  always  meant  to  do  it,  in 
fact,  for  he  was  the  soul  of  obligingness.  Perhaps 
it  wasn't  his  fault  if  the  counter-attraction  which 
inevitably  presented  itself  usually  had  stronger 

II 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

charms.  He  carried  one  basketful  of  grass  to 
Bossy — and  then  became  ecstatically  diverted. 
At  noon  his  father  saw  the  little  piles  of  grass  still 
lying  on  the  lawn,  and  asked  for  an  explanation. 
"Whyee,"  began  Johnny,  smiling  up  engagingly 
at  his  parent  and  casting  about  in  his  mind  for 
something  to  say,  "it  was  this  way:  I  tooked 
her  one  basketful  and  I — and  I  was  just  comin* 
back  fer  another;  and  she — and  she  says — says: 
'This  will  be  plenty,  thank  you,  Johnny/  '  It 
is  reported  that  Davy  blushed  for  the  unblush- 
ing Johnny,  and  that  as  soon  as  they  two  were 
alone  together  he  took  Johnny  solemnly  to  task. 
!<  Johnny/'  he  was  overheard  to  say,  "you  know 
cows  don't  talk."  "Sure  thing,  they  do!"  Johnny 
rejoined,  quickly.  "  Haven't  you  ever  heard  'em  ? " 
And  so  convincing  was  his  manner  that  Davy  felt 
there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said.  Always  while 
he  was  with  Johnny  he  was  awed  by  the  magnifi- 
cent audacity  of  the  stories  Johnny  dared  to  tell. 
But  when  Johnny  was  away  from  him,  and  his 
return  was  overdue — which  his  returns  nearly 
always  were — Davy  was  given  to  the  sharpest 
anxiety  as  to  what  might  suitably  have  befallen 
that  precious  but  graceless  young  person  who  held 
the  truth  in  such  slight  regard. 

Thus  the  Governor's  sons.  His  daughter  Rose 
was  his  youngest-born.  One  would  be  glad — so 
glad! — to  be  able  to  tell  just  how  Rose  Innes 
looked  as  a  child  of  twelve;  but  it  is  impossible — 

12 


The  Governor's  Family 

just  as  impossible  as  it  always  was,  later.  Few 
women  have  been  more  written  about,  and  less 
described;  more  painted,  and  less  pictured.  The 
reason  being,  of  course,  that  Rose  had  no  fixed 
identity.  She  reflected  the  best  that  was  around 
her.  She  was,  as  was  exquisitely  to  be  said  of 
her,  "everybody's  sweetest  dream  come  true." 
When  one  tried  to  be  specific,  to  get  away  from 
generalities,  all  that  could  be  said  about  her — as 
child  or  maiden  or  woman — was  that  she  was 
fair  in  coloring  and  slight  in  figure,  and  that  her 
whole  personality  might  be  summed  up  in  another 
phrase  she  was  to  inspire,  "that  wistfulness  to  be 
loved,  which  was  her  genius."  Broadly  generaliz- 
ing, it  might  be  said  that  Rose's  father  loved  her 
because  she  could  understand  what  she  was  told 
— he  talked  to  her  of  his  ideals  more  freely  than  to 
any  other  person;  and  her  mother  loved  her  be- 
cause she  did  what  she  was  told  and  gave  promise 
of  being  an  excellent  little  domestic  body;  and 
Johnny  loved  her  because  she  believed  all  she  was 
told  and  never  questioned  anything  in  the  splen- 
did world  of  romance  he  lived  in  and  to  which 
he  welcomed  her;  while  Davy — ah,  well!  Davy 
loved  her  for  every  reason  there  is  or  could  be. 
Some  one  once  said  she  was  "Davy's  religion." 
It  was  true,  if  not  all  of  the  truth. 

The  result  of  the  conference  was  that  they  de- 
cided on  a  place  on  the  New  Jersey  shore,  near 

13 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

enough  so  that  the  Governor  could  get  there  often 
for  week-ends;  "select"  enough  in  its  cottage 
colony  to  satisfy  Mrs.  Innes;  and  sufficiently  close 
to  Atlantic  City  to  fulfil  Johnny's  dream  of  Coney 
Island. 

"I'm  sorry  about  the  Rocky  Mountains,  Dave," 
the  Governor  said;  "but  I'm  sure  they'll  'keep.'  ' 

"Can't  swim  in  the  Rocky  Mountains,"  re- 
minded Johnny,  consolingly — those  of  us  who  get 
our  wish  can  always  think  of  consolations  suitable 
for  our  disappointed  brothers — "and  I  tell  you 
I'm  going  to  do  some  great  stunts  of  high  diving 
this  summer.  Wait  till  you  see  me!  Gee!" 

Carried  away  by  the  joy  in  prospect,  Johnny 
mounted  the  chair  on  which  he  had  been  perching, 
as  if  it  were  a  spring-board,  and  poised  himself 
for  a  dive. 

"Johnny!" 

His  mother's  horrified  tone  recalled  Johnny  to 
the  proprieties;  but  it  was  not  in  Johnny's  tem- 
perament to  come  down  without  one  spring.  He 
made  the  leap,  doubled  up  like  a  jack-knife,  and 
landed  in  a  sitting  posture.  But  the  chair  springs 
gave  way;  there  was  a  sound  of  ripping  burlap 
underneath;  and  Johnny  found  himself  tangled  in 
a  deep  pocket  of  disorganized  upholstery.  The 
opportunity  for  mirthfulness  delighted  Johnny; 
he  never  minded  in  the  least  being  made  ridicu- 
lous if  he  could  get  a  good  laugh  out  of  it.  But 
his  mother  soon  checked  his  mirth. 


The  Governor's  Family 

" Such  behavior! "  she  cried,  indignantly.  " Peo- 
ple might  think  you  never  had  any  bringing  up. 
I  declare!  I'm  discouraged." 

"Anybody  that  knows  you,  Julia,"  the  Gover- 
nor assured  her  dryly,  "knows  that  he  has  had 
bringing  up.  But  I'm  sorry,  son,"  turning  to 
Johnny,  "about  the  chair.  It  belongs  to  the 
State,  you  know.  Of  course  we'll  have  it  re- 
paired, but  we  can't  ask  the  State  to  pay  the  bill. 
The  only  fair  and  square  thing,  that  I  can  see,  is 
for  you  to  pay  for  it  out  of  your  pocket-money." 

"Oh,  Pop!" 

"I  know;  it  means  complete  destitution  all 
summer — and  Atlantic  City  so  near!  But  I'll 
tell  you,  son — this  is  for  Davy's  sake  as  well  as 
yours,  because  I  know  he'd  lend  you  all  of  his — 
if  you'll  promise  not  to  borrow  of  Davy  once,  all 
summer,  I'll  pay  the  repair  bill  and  take  it  out  of 
your  allowance  a  little  at  a  time;  so  you'll  only 
have  to  give  up  half  your  pleasures." 

"I  think  that's  all  very  absurd,"  Mrs.  Innes 
pronounced,  decidedly.  "For  my  part,  I  think 
the  State  ought  to  clear  out  all  this  old  rubbishy 
furniture  and  fix  the  house  up  decently.  It's 
ridiculous  to  ask  people  to  come  here  and  put  up 
with  this,  when  they  have  to  leave  so  much  better 
at  home." 

"The  State  didn't  ask  us  to  come  here," 
Lyman  Innes  reminded  her.  "We  nearly  broke 

15 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

our  necks — if  you'll  pardon  the  vulgarism — tx> 
get  the  job.  And  the  Mansion  isn't  supposed  to 
be  the  prize — it's  the  power  of  law  and  order  in 
a  great  commonwealth  that's  supposed  to  attract 
a  man  who's  made  governor.  The  Mansion  is 
old,  but  its  memories  are  fine;  and  it's  comfort- 
able  " 

"You  may  find  it  comfortable  because  /  make 
it  so.  But  you  don't  have  to  keep  house  in  it. 
I'd  rather  have  procelain  bath  tubs  than  fine 
memories.  And  all  this  old  Civil-War-time  furni- 
ture makes  me  ashamed.  I  suppose  some  people 
who  come  here  think  it's  ours — or,  at  least,  that 
I  don't  know  any  better!" 

This  was  possibly  the  one  hundred  and  eightieth 
time — in  six  months — that  this  subject  had  been 
raised  by  Julia  Innes  for  discussion.  Her  first 
demand,  on  reaching  the  Mansion,  had  been  to 
sweep  everything  out  of  it  into  the  discard  and 
refurnish  throughout.  Failing  that,  she  thought 
she  should  at  least  be  allowed  to  rehabilitate. 
Lyman  Innes  pleaded  that  it  was  his  ideal  to  have 
no  extravagance  —  personal  or  departmental  — 
charged  against  his  administration.  It  was  Julia 
Innes's  theory  that  "the  more  you  cost,  the  more 
you  are  appreciated.  Look  at  the  European 
kings!"  And  to  suggest  that  the  appreciation  of 
expensive  kings  is  not  universal  was  only  to  pro- 
long the  argument. 

16 


The  Governor's  Family 

"This  isn't  our  home,  Julia,"  Lyman  Innes 
always  reminded  her;  "we're  camping  here  while 
we  serve  the  State.  Suppose  I  should  ever  have 
to  call  out  the  militia — which  God  forbid! — and 
they  were  to  camp  here  in  the  State-House  grounds,, 
as  they've  been  known  to  do.  Would  you  go  into 
any  soldier's  tent  and  judge  his  ideals  of  comfort 
by  what  the  State  provides  him  with  while  he's  on 
duty?"  To  this  Julia  Innes  invariably  replied: 
"We're  not  the  militia";  which  was  so  self-evi- 
dent that  there  was  never  anything  more  to  say. 

Perhaps  this  is  as  good  a  place  as  any  to  record 
that  the  Governor  paid  out  of  his  own  pocket  for 
the  repair  of  the  chair  springs,  and  deducted  the 
amount  from  Johnny's  allowance  at  the  rate  of 
fifty  cents  a  week.  Also,  that  his  wife  regularly 
made  up  to  Johnny  the  fifty  cents  which  Johnny's 
father  believed  the  boy  was  paying  to  learn  a  fine 
principle.  This  she  was  prompted  to  do  by  her 
maternal  pride  in  Johnny's  charms — to  which,  as 
was  usual  wherever  Johnny  went,  everybody  at 
their  sea-side  resort  fell  easily  captive.  Far  oft- 
ener — Mrs.  Innes  found — than  she  was  spoken  of 
as  Governor  Innes's  wife  was  she  referred  to  as 
Johnny  Innes's  mother.  Johnny  had  pretty  man- 
ners— company  manners — born  of  his  desire  to 
please,  and  not  at  all,  as  his  mother  fondly  be- 
lieved, of  her  continual  admonishing.  She  felt 
that  he  reflected  credit  upon  her  method  of 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

bringing  up;  and  without  exactly  meaning  to,  she 
let  Johnny  find  out  that  she  felt  this.  Altogether, 
as  some  deploring  on-looker  once  observed:  "If 
all  the  women  in  the  world  had  been  'lined  up' 
to  discover  which  one  should  least  of  all  have 
been  Johnny  Innes's  mother,  the  judgment  would 
have  fallen  unhesitatingly  on  Lyman  Innes's  wife." 
Some  few  who  knew  him  best,  surmised  that 
Lyman  Innes  was  desperately  aware  of  this. 
But  no  one  had  ever  heard  him  intimate  as  much; 
and  in  what  he  did,  hoping  to  save  his  son,  he 
never  discounted  his  wife's  teachings — he  only 
strove  to  supplement  them  with  others  of  a  better 
sort. 

And  yet ! 


18 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    WOMAN   WHO    HELPED 

THE  troubles  Lyman  Innes  had  feared  thick- 
ened rapidly.  Strikes  were  newer  fifteen 
years  ago,  and  the  public  was  less  accustomed  to 
them.  Then,  as  now,  the  demands  of  a  few  hun- 
dreds, or  thousands,  of  working-men — whether 
right  or  wrong — interested  the  great  body  of  the 
public  practically  not  at  all,  until  the  cessation 
of  some  form  of  labor  made  the  public  suffer  in- 
convenience. Then,  instantly,  everybody  had  an 
opinion,  and  it  was  that  "a  few  disgruntled 
laborers  should  not  be  allowed  to  inconvenience 
the  community." 

This  strike  that  was  giving  Lyman  Innes  vast 
concern  was  doing  more  than  inconveniencing  the 
community.  It  was  paralyzing  an  industry  on 
which  many  communities  depended,  not  for  their 
convenience  alone  but  for  their  commerce,  which, 
as  society  was  organized  in  those  communities, 
meant  their  life.  When  the  wheels  of  commerce 
stopped,  existence  was  menaced,  for  the  majority. 

The  Governor  was  appealed  to.  He  was  urged 
to  call  out  the  militia,  to  authorize  its  officers  to 

19 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

set  guards  over  the  wheels  restored  to  motion,  and 
to  order  volleys  fired  against  any  show  of  resist- 
ance. This  he  was  unwilling  to  do  because,  as  it 
happened,  he  knew  the  cause  of  the  striking  men 
was  just;  because,  as  it  happened,  his  experience 
gave  him  understanding,  and  he  could  look  ahead 
and  see  what  it  would  mean  to  the  development 
of  liberty,  in  this  country  of  boasted  freedom,  if 
that  perfectly  legitimate  demand  of  self-respecting 
labor  were  denied  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet. 

It  was  an  agonizing  crisis.  The  country  was 
watching  him,  demanding  of  him.  All  day  long, 
and  every  day,  he  was  besieged  with  delegations 
representing  this  interest  and  that.  Everybody 
who  came  knew  exactly  what  he  ought  to  do — had 
a  clear  vision  of  his  duty;  some  claimed  to  have 
evolved  the  solution  they  offered;  some  declared 
they  had  received  theirs  of  God.  To  the  latter, 
Innes  could  only  quote  Lincoln's  reply  to  the  Illi- 
nois preachers  who  went  to  Washington  to  tell 
him  that  it  was  the  will  of  God  that  he  should  free 
the  slaves;  whereat  Lincoln  expressed  surprise 
that  "in  a  matter  so  clearly  involving  my  duty, 
God  should  not  have  told  me." 

Nor  were  those  who  could  come  in  person  all. 
Hundreds  who  could  not  come  wrote  letters. 
And  every  newspaper  in  the  country  pointed  out 
to  him  what  he  must  do  to  save  the  situation  and 
to  be  himself  politically  saved. 

20 


The  Woman  Who  Helped 

Julia  Innes,  at  the  sea-side,  "felt  the  situation," 
as  she  wrote  him,  "deeply.  Everybody  wonders 
why  you  don't  act,  and  I'm  sure  some  of  these  peo- 
ple think  there's  something  queer  about  you — 
maybe  about  all  of  us! — because  you  don't.  I 
am  mortified  almost  to  death.  This  horrid  strike 
has  spoiled  my  summer.  I  don't  see  what  you 
can  be  thinking  of — when  one  little  word  from 
you  would  fix  everything." 

He  wanted  to  go  and  address  the  strikers;  to 
tell  them  that  he  knew  their  cause  was  just,  but 
to  ask  them,  in  the  interest  of  the  common  good, 
to  name  a  basis  whereon,  for  the  present,  they 
would  compromise.  But  his  advisers  were  aghast. 
"It'd  kill  you!"  they  cried  with  one  voice.  "Po- 
litically, you'd  be  a  dead  man.  You'd  lose  the 
labor  vote  if  you  suggested  compromise,  and  you'd 
lose  the  conservative  vote  if  you  announced  your 
sympathy  with  the  strikers." 

"Then  let  me  go  to  the  employers — I'm  an 
employer  of  labor — or  I  was,  at  least — and  I 
understand;  they'll  listen  to  me." 

"Listen  to  you?"  he  was  told.  "Of  course 
they  will!  And  take  your  measure  carefully; 
and  the  next  time  you  need  a  new  suit  of  executive 
clothes  you  won't  get  them — because  there'll  be 
nobody  to  pay  the  bill!" 

And  when  he  pleaded — in  all  truthfulness — 
that  he  would  rather  be  "right  once,  than  gov- 

21 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

ernor  twice/'  he  was  sharply  adjured  to  remember 
that  he  represented  his  political  party  and  that 
he  had  no  right  to  carry  it  down  with  him  to  that 
contumely  which  would  entail  defeat. 

The  heat  of  that  summer  was  intense,  and  the 
suffering  was  very  great — not  only  among  the 
strikers'  families,  but  among  the  thousands  of 
others  who,  as  always,  shared  perforce  the  pen- 
alties of  war.  It  was  the  non-combatants'  cries 
of  anguish  that  rent  Lyman  Innes's  heart  most 
distressfully. 

Only  two  things  helped  him  to  stand  steadfast 
through  all  that  storm.  One  was  Lincoln — any 
and  every  record  he  could  get  of  Lincoln's  su- 
preme loneness  in  the  early,  and  even  in  a  measure 
in  the  latter,  War  years;  after  a  long  day  of 
severest  trial,  he  would  sit,  almost  until  the  next 
day  broke,  drawing  strength  and  comfort  from 
those  heart-breaking  records.  One  help  was  Lin- 
coln— and  the  other  was  a  woman. 

One  had  only  to  look  at  Lyman  Innes  to  know 
that  he  had  more  than  ordinary  susceptibility  to 
women;  his  mouth  betrayed  that  instantly.  But 
he  had,  too,  a  counterbalancing  tendency  ex- 
pressed in  his  flashing  eyes;  he  was  an  idealist 
— not  a  sentimental,  dreamy,  sensuous  idealist, 
but  an  energetic,  determined  striver  after  ideals 
clearly  within  his  vision  and  probably  within 
his  not-too-ultimate  reach.  Many  men  among 

22 


The  Woman  Who  Helped 

Lyman  Innes's  contemporaries  had  bigger  and 
finer  dreams  than  his;  and  many  of  them  were 
greatly  ennobled  by  these  splendid  dreams,  even 
though  no  prospect  of  realization  ever  stayed 
more  than  momentarily  to  encourage  them.  On 
the  other  hand,  though,  there  is  grave  danger  for 
any  but  spiritually  strong  men  whose  reach  so 
habitually  exceeds  their  grasp  that  they  never 
clutch  anything  more  tangible  than  thin  air; 
sharp  reactions  come,  and  the  dreamer  not  super- 
humanly  strong  has  horrid  slumps,  sometimes. 
Lyman  Innes  was  by  no  means  superhumanly 
strong;  and  it  was  an  excellent  thing  for  him  that 
the  ideals  he  pursued  were  not  too  terribly  elusive. 
He  caught  up  with  them  rather  frequently,  and 
the  next  beyond  were  never  discouragingly  far 
ahead.  Thus  he  was  kept  interested  and  alertly 
in  love  with  life,  and  the  exasperating  mistake  of 
his  marriage  did  not  fret  him  unbearably;  women, 
and  the  hope  of  finding  happiness  with  them, 
plagued  him  less  than  they  might  have  done. 

This  summer,  though,  he  was  in  a  position  to 
be  quite  cruelly  tempted,  if  temptation  came  his 
way.  And  it  came — as  it  has  a  cunning  way  of 
doing  when  the  forces  of  resistance  are  least  able 
to  withstand  a  siege. 

The  pressure  of  extra  correspondence,  brought 
on  by  wide-spread  public  interest  in  the  strike, 
made  necessary  a  larger  clerical  force  in  the  Execu- 

23 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

tive  Offices.  It  would  have  been  impossible  for 
the  Governor  to  read  one-tenth  of  the  letters  that 
came  to  him;  although,  in  his  deep  anxiety  to  do 
right,  he  was  unwilling  to  neglect  any  of  them, 
lest  somewhere  among  the  many  there  might  be 
some  suggestion  he  would  do  well  to  heed.  It 
was  the  same  with  newspaper  editorials.  He 
wanted,  in  addition  to  a  second  secretary  whose 
especial  care  all  this  extra  correspondence  should 
be,  some  one  to  take  charge  of  the  letters  and 
papers;  to  read  them  sympathetically,  painstak- 
ingly, and  turn  over  to  him  with  helpful  com- 
ment those  most  likely  to  interest  him.  He  tried 
a  number  of  persons  about  the  Capitol  on  this 
latter;  two  or  three  secretaries  from  other  depart- 
ments, and  even  a  newspaper  correspondent — 
not  one  of  those  sent  there  to  "cover"  the  strike, 
for  they  were  too  busy,  but  a  man  out  of  a  job  who 
had  come  to  the  Capital  to  see  if  he  could  not  pick 
up  material  for  some  special  articles.  He  got 
the  opportunity  of  a  lifetime,  in  the  Governor's 
correspondence;  but  he  wasn't  equal  to  it,  either 
for  the  special  articles  or  for  the  Governor's  aid. 
When  he  failed,  some  one  suggested  a  woman. 
"They're  more  conscientious  about  some  things, 
and  perhaps  more  sympathetic."  The  Governor 
was  willing  to  try.  He  instructed  his  private 
secretary  to  see  if  he  could  find  a  competent 
woman  who  would  undertake  the  job.  The  pri- 

24 


The  Woman  Who  Helped 

vate  secretary  replied  that  he  could  find  any  num- 
ber of  women  who  would  undertake  the  job,  but 
that  he  couldn't  presume  to  judge,  beforehand, 
which  among  them  might  be  competent.  "Per- 
haps I  can,"  said  the  Governor.  "You  get  them 
here  and  I'll  try  to  make  a  choice." 

That  was  a  rash  undertaking;  after  he  had 
interviewed  the  first  dozen  applicants,  the  Gov- 
ernor declared  that  attempting  to  decide  what 
was  the  right  thing  to  do  about  the  strike  was  as 
nothing  compared  with  attempting  to  find  that 
qualified  woman  letter-reader. 

"Give  it  up — or  pick  one  yourself,"  he  told  the 
private  secretary;  "but  don't  send  any  more  of 
them  in  here.  I  never  supposed  there  were  so 
many  'impossible'  females  alive.  My  gallantry 
has  had  an  awful  shock." 

Late  in  the  day,  Perkins — the  private  secretary 
— came  into  the  Governor's  room  and  said,  "Well! 
I've  engaged  one  for  a  trial.  Will  you  see  her?" 

"No.  You  tell  her  what  we  want — give  her  a 
batch  of  letters — and  ask  her  to  report  to  me  to- 
morrow. I  can  tell  better  then." 

The  next  morning  before  ten  o'clock,  Perkins 
reported  that  "the  lady  letter-reader"  was  there, 
but  that  she  had  come  to  resign  her  job. 

"She  seems  all  cut  up  about  it,"  he  added, 
"and  I'm  sorry — for  I  think  she  was  the  one  you 
want." 

25 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

After  yesterday's  experience  —  with  all  those 
women  he  was  sure  he  didn't  want  but  who  were 
so  sure  he  did  that  they  almost  insisted  on  coming 
anyway — the  Governor's  interest  was  piqued  by 
the  woman,  probably  qualified,  who  wouldn't  stay. 
His  first  impulse  was  to  take  none  of  his  over- 
taxed time  for  the  unattainable.  Then  some- 
thing as  old  as  Adam  made  him  want  to  see  that 
woman;  and  as  unwittingly  as  most  men  have 
done  so,  he  put  himself  in  the  hands  of  his 
fate. 

"Ask  her  if  she  won't  step  in  here  for  a  mo- 
ment," he  said  to  Perkins.  A  few  seconds  later, 
Perkins  ushered  her  in. 

"Your  Excellency,  this  is  Mrs.  Bardeen,"  he 
said,  and  withdrew. 

The  Governor  rose  to  greet  a  woman  rather 
above  medium  height  and  of  a  build  inclining  to 
plumpness.  She  had  very  large,  very  dark-brown 
eyes  whose  gentleness — that  might  at  any  moment 
become  tenderness — of  expression  was  the  first 
thing  one  noticed  about  her.  The  next — it  was 
a  day  of  waists  made  surplice  fashion  and  collar- 
less — was  the  exquisite  beauty  and  softness  of  her 
throat.  She  was  dressed  very  'plainly,  in  a  black- 
and-white  checked  gingham  dress  probably  of  her 
own  making.  Her  hat  was  a  simple  shade  hat 
such  as  a  woman  wears  not  for  coquetry  but  for 
protection  against  the  sun.  All  this  one  took  in  at 

26 


The  Woman  Who  Helped 

a  glance,  without,  however,  becoming  more  than 
dimly  conscious  of  anything  but  the  changing  ex- 
pressions of  those  big  brown  eyes,  and  the  intox- 
icating loveliness  of  that  satin-soft  throat.  She 
was,  perhaps,  thirty-five  years  of  age;  a  woman, 
one  would  guess,  who  had  matured  slowly  and 
was  only  now  entering  upon  the  heyday  of  her 
attractiveness. 

Her  voice  had  a  beautiful  low  pitch,  and  she 
spoke  without  haste,  though  she  was  obviously 
embarrassed. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  began,  when  she  had 
acknowledged  his  greeting.  "  I  should  have  loved 
the  work  better  than  anything  I  ever  dreamed  of 
getting  to  do.  But  my  husband  was  not  willing. 
I  came  here  yesterday  without  saying  anything 
to  him — I  was  afraid  he  would  feel  sensitive.  We 
need  the  money.  He  is  secretary  to  one  of  the 
big  employers  whose  places  are  closed  down  by 
the  strike;  there  is  little  to  be  done  in  the  offices, 
so  most  of  the  clerical  force  has  been  laid  off,  my 
husband  among  the  rest.  'No  money  coming  in, 
we  must  stop  money  going  out/  his  employer 
says.  It's  the  fortune  of  war,  I  suppose.  We 
weren't  ready  for  it — I  suppose  that's  an  average 
fate,  too — and  I  thought  I'd  see  what  I  could  do 
to — to  help  withstand  the  siege.  But  my  hus- 
band was — was  quite  unwilling." 

"What  were  his  obj —     I  beg  your  pardon!     I 

27 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

didn't  mean  to  be  impertinent;  but  I  couldn't 
help  wondering " 

"I  never  find  impertinence  where  I  am  sure 
none  is  felt,"  she  answered,  smiling.  "It  is  a 
little  hard  for  me  to  tell  you,  but  I  dare  say — 
after  reading  a  few  of  these  letters  and  editorials 
— that  my  little  explanation  will  hardly  do  more 
than  amuse  you.  You  see,  my  husband  is  very 
anxious  to  have  the  strike  ended,  and  he — 
he " 

"He  thinks  I'm  not  doing  all  I  might  to  end 
it?" 

She  nodded. 

"And  you?    Is  this  an  impertinence?    You?" 

She  flushed. 

"Don't  answer,  please — I  beg  you!"  he  en- 
treated. "I  had  no  right " 

"Oh  yes,  you  had,"  she  interrupted  him. 
"Every  human  creature  who  is  trying,  in  the 
face  of  terrible  opposition,  to  do  what  he  believes 
to  be  his  duty  has  a  right  to  look  among  his 
fellow-creatures  for  some  sign  of  sympathy." 

"To  look,  yes;   but  not  to  ask." 

"Well,  perhaps  not,"  she  granted  him.  "But 
we'll  agree  that  your  question  slipped  unawares 
from  look  to  speech.  And  as  everybody  tells  me 
my  looks  are  more  telltale  than  my  speech,  I 
may  as  well  answer  you  directly;  you'd  surmise 
it  from  my  expression,  anyway.  I'm  in  sympa- 

28 


The  Woman  Who  Helped 

thy  with  the  strikers,  and — with  you.  That's  the 
trouble." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  gravely,  and  somehow 
just  then  he  couldn't  think  of  anything  more  to  say. 

She,  too,  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
handed  him  a  little  packet  of  half  a  dozen  letters. 

"I  think  you  will  want  to  read  these,"  she  sug- 
gested. "There  are  things  in  all  of  them  you  will 
want  to  know.  This  one" —  untying  the  packet 
and  indicating  a  particular  letter  among  the  six 
— "from  a  striker's  wife,  will  uphold  you  quite 
wonderfully,  I'm  sure,  when  you  are — urged  to 
call  out  the  militia.  I  am  so  sorry,  as  I  said  at 
first,  that  I  cannot  do  this  work,  for  I  know  a 
good  deal  about  conditions  among  the  strikers — 
and  I  know  how  little  they  deserve  to  be  shot." 

What  she  further  said,  in  making  her  departure, 
the  Governor  did  not  know.  He  was  not  even 
conscious  of  replying  to  her.  All  he  could  realize 
was  that  she  had  been  there,  with  her  under- 
standing and  her  sympathy — and  that  intoxicat- 
ing white  throat — and  that  she  was  gone — gone! 
He  sat  staring  into  space — the  space  where  she 
had  been — and  for  the  first  time  in  his  fight  the 
weakness  of  self-pity  overwhelmed  him. 

"God!"  he  said,  speaking  not  aloud  but  within 
his  own  mind,  and  calling,  instinctively,  on  a  God 
not  distantly  enthroned  but  there — close — in  his 
soul — now  above,  now  below  (or  so  it  seemed!) — 

29 


Children  of  ToMorrow 

the  demon  that  was  in  him  also — "God!  What  a 
man  might  be — with  a  woman  like  that!"  Then, 
as  self-pity  mastered  him:  "It  isn't  fair!"  he 
cried;  "it  isn't  fair!  Why  send  her  here  if  she 
couldn't  stay?" 

Then,  if  there  are  any  Furies  that  conspire 
against  men's  souls,  they  must  have  laughed; 
for  they  know  that  when  a  man  grows  sorry  for 
himself  his  spiritual  defences  are  down  and  he  is 
at  the  mercy  of  his  peace's  enemy. 

"Perkins,"  said  the  Governor  late  that  after- 
noon, "I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me." 

This  was  an  unusual  way  of  prefacing  a  direc- 
tion about  work,  and  Perkins — being  wise  in  the 
ways  of  confidential  service — was  prepared  for  a 
special  requisition  upon  his  fidelity  and  his  secre- 
tiveness. 

"Yes,  sir!"  he  answered,  in  a  tone  which  he 
hoped  would  indicate  that  he  was  ready  for  any- 
thing. 

"That  was  a  very  remarkable  woman  who  called 
here  this  morning — that  Mrs.  Bardeen,"  the  Gov- 
ernor went  on.  "It  is  a  great  regret  to  me — a 
very  great  regret — that  she  could  not  continue 
with  the  work.  She  would  have  been  a  big  help 
to  me." 

"I'm  sorry,  sir;  I  thought  so,  too,"  said  Per- 
kins— and  waited. 

30 


The  Woman  Who  Helped 

**  Do  you  know  anything  about  her  ? " 

"Not  a  thing,  sir;  but  I  can  find  out."  Perkins 
was  an  assiduous  reader  of  the  memoirs  of  Con- 
stant, Napoleon's  valet,  and  he  flattered  himself 
that  he  knew  a  thing  or  two  about  the  ways  of 
the  exalted. 

"How?" 

"Well,  I  can  ask,  sir." 

"Ask  what?     Ask  whom?" 

"Ask  around,  sir.  Somebody's  sure  to  know 
what  you  want  to  find  out." 

"And  do  you  think  you  know  what  I  want  to 
£ndout?" 

"I  think  I  do,  sir,"  said  Perkins,  with  a  con- 
scious air. 

The  Governor  became  suddenly  aware  of  what 
was  in  Perkins's  mind,  and  it  enraged  him. 

"I  think  you  do  NOT!"  he  thundered. 

Perkins,  self-convicted,  stammered  an  apology. 

"Mrs.  Bardeen,"  said  the  Governor,  when  he 
had  accepted  the  apology,  "is  a  lady — every  inch 
a  lady — one  of  the  finest  it  has  ever  been  my  good 
fortune  to  meet.  She  told  me — very  briefly — of 
their  straits " 

"Yes,  sir;  she  told  me,  the  day  she  came — 
yesterday." 

" — and  why  she  was  obliged  to  decline  the 
work  we  offered  her." 

"Yes,  sir." 

31 


Children  of  ToMorrow 

"It  seems  a  great  pity  that  when  she  needs; 
the  work,  and  the  work  needs  her,  she  cannot  be 
allowed  to  do  it." 

"It  does,  indeed,  sir." 

"What  I  thought  you  could,  perhaps,  find  out, 
was  something  about  Mr.  Bardeen — how  strong 
his  antagonism  is — whether  there  is  any  way  it 
might  be  overcome " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"But  be  very  careful  how  you  go  about  it.     It 

is  a  delicate  undertaking.     Mrs.  Bardeen  would 

not  wish  to  have  his  pride  hurt  by  letting  people 

know  that  she  was  seeking  employment — least  of 

•"all  from  me,  if  his  opposition  to  me  is  well  known." 

"Of  course  not,  sir." 

"I  didn't  think  at  the  time — when  she  was 
here — to  ask  her  if  she  thought  there  was  any- 
thing that  might  be  done  to  make  her  husband 
reconsider.  It  occurs  to  me  that  I  hardly  even 
expressed  my  regret.  I  was — preoccupied.  Per- 
haps if  I  were  to  send  her  a  note " 

"Yes,  sir.    Would  you  wish  to  dictate  it,  sir?" 

"No,  certainly  not.  That  is,  I  suppose  a  per- 
sonal note  would  express  my  regret  much  more 
delicately." 

"I  dare  say,  sir.  Would  you  like  me  to  deliver 
it?" 

"Yes — and  without  embarrassment  to  the  lady 
— I  mean,  if  her  husband  should  be  at  home — a 

32 


The  Woman  Who  Helped 

messenger   from   the    Governor's    Mansion — you 

understand ? " 

"I  understand,  sir." 

After  the  note  was  despatched,  Lyman  Innes 
found  himself  possessed  by  a  restlessness  about 
which  it  was  difficult  to  deceive  himself.  Unable 
to  concentrate  his  mind  upon  anything  else  than 
the  probable  outcome  of  that  note,  he  abandoned> 
presently,  all  effort  to  do  otherwise,  and  spent  an 
hour — two  hours — of  the  stifling  July  night  pac- 
ing up  and  down  the  library  of  the  Mansion,  that 
gaunt,  shabby-genteel  old  place  he  had  chosen  to 
call  his  tent  while  he  was  on  duty. 

As  he  paced,  he  was  noting — half-consciously 
— the  things  Julia  so  bitterly  disapproved.  Then 
he  found  himself  wondering  if  She  would  care! 
Suppose  she  sat  there,  now,  in  that  chair  by  the 
table,  beneath  the  drop-light!  Would  it  matter 
to  her  that  the  furniture  was  unfashionably  anti- 
quated ?  Over  the  fine  old  mantel  of  white  mar- 
ble, which  was  an  eyesore  to  Julia  because  the 
moment's  fancy  was  for  mantels  of  wood,  hung  a 
noble  portrait  which — so  very  strong  was  the 
tradition  about  it — was  never  removed  from  this 
place.  It  was  a  portrait  of  the  War  Governor — 
the  man  who  had  presided  over  the  destinies  of 
this  State  during  the  cruel  years  of  the  nation's 
Civil  War.  He  had  been  a  great  governor,  mag- 

33 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

nificently  steadfast  throughout  times  that  tried 
men's  souls.  His  memory  was  a  precious  heri- 
tage to  the  sons  of  his  State.  How  often — Lyman 
Innes  reminded  himself  to-night  as  he  looked  up 
at  the  grave,  benignant  face — that  other  governor 
must  have  paced  in  vigil  up  and  down  this  same 
old  room  battling  for  strength  to  withstand  all 
that  beset  him.  The  memory  of  his  trials,  nobly 
borne,  dignified  the  place — yes,  exalted  it!  It 
was  a  splendid  opportunity  that  he,  Lyman  Innes, 
had;  if  he  proved  worthy,  how  might  not  his 
brave  fight,  remembered,  strengthen  the  sorely 
tried  courage  of  others  coming  after  him!  .  .  . 
Somehow,  he  felt  that  She  would  not  notice  the 
upholstery;  that  the  portrait,  and  the  memories, 
would  thrill  her,  too. 

The  clock  in  the  Capitol — two  squares  away — 
struck  ten.  No  word  would  come  from  her  after 
this  hour.  He  turned  toward  the  door,  to  go  up- 
stairs; and  as  he  did  so,  he  lifted  his  bent  head 
suddenly,  and  found  himself  looking  into  the 
laughing  eyes  of  that  ancestral  Cavalier.  Mock- 
ing eyes  they  were,  he  reflected,  as  he  climbed 
the  dimly  lighted  stairs.  .  .  .  "Wonder  what  the 
War  Governor  would  think  of  him,  for  company  ? 
.  .  .  And  yet!  though  they  laughed  and  mocked, 
they  were  brave — those  gay  gentlemen  who  loved, 
and  fought,  and  drank,  and  sang — those  satin- 
clad  Cavaliers — they  could  die  nobly,  too.  .  .  ." 

34 


The  Woman  Who  Helped 

Thus  ran  his  drowsing  thoughts.  And  when 
he  was  fallen  asleep,  he  dreamed  of  a  lady — a 
Cavalier's  lady  she  was;  quite  splendid — like  a 
Van  Dyck  portrait — but  one  looked  quickly  past 
all  that,  to  the  ravishing  loveliness  of  her  white, 
white  throat. 


35 


CHAPTER  III 

OLIVIA 

OLIVIA  BARDEEN  dried  the  last  of  her 
supper  dishes  and  put  them  away;  scrubbed 
her  wooden  dish-drain,  scalded  her  dish-rag  and 
towels  and  hung  them  up  to  air,  rinsed  her  sink 
in  the  hot  suds,  wiped  her  dish-pan  dry  and  put 
it  on  its  nail  beside  the  sink. 

All  these  things  she  did  mechanically,  as  by 
force  of  long  habit.  In  the  same  way,  she  wound 
the  kitchen  clock,  put  out  the  tickets  and  the 
covered  pail  for  milk — she  was  not  taking  cream 
now — and  securely  locked  the  back  door  against 
any  possible,  but  not  probable,  burglar  who  might 
select  so  unpromising  a  place  to  rob. 

She  still  wore  the  gingham  dress  she  had  worn 
in  the  morning  when  she  called  on  the  Governor; 
only  it  was  fresh  then,  and  now  it  was  wilted  by 
the  kitchen's  steaming  heat.  Her  brown  hair — 
of  an  almost  baby  fineness  and  not  very  abundant 
— was  damp  with  perspiration,  and  she  pushed 
it  back  weariedly  from  her  hot  forehead.  She 
wore  her  hair  very  simply,  pinned  in  a  small 
knot  at  the  nape  of  her  white  neck.  But  it  was 

36 


Olivia 

the  kind  of  hair  that  moisture  curls,  and  there 
were  little  ringlets  in  it  to-night — as  if  Nature 
were  determinedly  keeping  up  her  charms,  in 
spite  of  Olivia's  busyness  and  neglect  of  them. 

In  the  dining-room,  a  little  girl  of  nine  was 
brushing  the  crumbs  and  setting  things  to  rights. 

"There,  honey-lamb;  thank  you!  that  will  do," 
her  mother  said,  taking  the  big  broom  away  from 
her.  "You  go  out  and  play  a  little  while  before 
bedtime.  It's  so  hot  to-night  I'm  afraid  the 
chances  for  sleeping  are  not  very  good." 

The  child  was  glad  to  obey. 

"Where's  your  father?"  Olivia  asked. 

"I  think  he  went  downtown,"  little  Constance 
answered. 

When  the  child  was  gone  to  her  play — the 
street  was  full  of  children,  for  all  of  whom,  no 
doubt,  bedtime  would  be  considerably  deferred 
on  account  of  the  humid  heat — Olivia  sat  down 
in  the  sitting-room,  which  was  dark.  It  was  too 
hot  to  have  a  light;  and  besides,  she  hoped  that 
the  dark  and  quiet  would  keep  the  neighbors  from 
"running  in." 

She  was  in  no  mood  for  trivial  conversation, 
and  this  solitude  was  grateful  to  her. 

Presently,  Constance  came  in,  calling  her. 
"Mamma!"  she  cried.  "Mamma!  Where  are 
you?" 

Olivia  answered. 

37 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"Here's  a  man  to  see  you." 

Olivia  jumped  to  her  feet,  her  heart  beating 
wildly.  "It  could  not — !"  And  then,  ashamed 
of  herself  for  the  mad  thought,  and  for  what  it 
revealed  to  her  of  where  her  mind  had  been  stray- 
ing persistently,  she  fought  down  her  agitation 
and  went  to  the  door.  In  the  light  of  the  street 
lamp  she  recognized  the  young  man  who  was  the 
Governor's  private  secretary. 

"Mrs.  Bardeen?"  he  asked;  in  the  darkness 
he  could  see  only  that  it  was  a  woman  at  the 
door. 

"Yes.  Won't  you  come  in?  Or  perhaps  it 
will  be  pleasanter  out  here  on  the  porch."  She 
was  trying  to  speak  casually,  but  felt  that  in  her 
intense  effort  to  be  steady  she  was  overdoing  it. 

"Thank  you,  I'll  sit  here.  I  can  only  stop  a 
moment,"  he  said. 

Constance  lingered,  curious.  "Go  and  play, 
Constance!"  her  mother  ordered  her,  with  an  un- 
accustomed sharpness  that  surprised  the  child 
and  made  the  mother  blush  for  herself;  the  first 
realizations  of  deceit  are  so  scorching  to  the  sen- 
sitive soul. 

When  the  child  was  gone,  Perkins  turned  to 
Olivia.  "Mr.  Bardeen,  your  daughter  tells  me, 
is  not  at  home  ? " 

This,  too,  hurt — for  Olivia  understood.  "No," 
she  answered,  in  a  low  tone. 

38 


Olivia 

"I — you  will,  perhaps,  be  surprised.  But  the 
Governor  wanted  me  to  bring  you  a  note.  He 
was  anxious  that  you  should  not  be  put  to  any — 
er — embarrassment  by  a  note  from  the  Governor's 
Mansion  when  Mr.  Bardeen  was  present — know- 
ing how  Mr.  Bardeen  feels  about  the  strike  situa- 
tion. I  was  instructed  to  be  very  careful." 

Mr.  Perkins  paused;  but  Olivia  made  no 
sound.  Her  hands  were  tightly  locked  in  her  lap, 
and  she  was  biting  her  under-lip  quite  cruelly  to 
keep  her  self-control. 

"I  asked  some  children,"  Perkins  went  on, 
anxious  to  tell  in  full  his  fine  discreetness, "where 
Mr.  Charles  Bardeen  lived.  And  they  cried, 
'Constance!  somebody  wants  your  house/  I  was 
careful" — Olivia  felt  that  she  could  kill  him,  he 
took  her  interest  in  his  slimy  methods  so  entirely 
for  granted — "to  ask  her  for  her  father,  and  for 
you  only  when  she  said  he  had  gone  downtown." 

"Thank  you,"  Olivia  managed  to  say.  "I  am 
sorry  if  I  led  the  Governor  to  such  an  extreme 
estimate  of  Mr.  Bardeen's  antagonism." 

Perkins  was  not  sure  how  she  meant  this,  so  he 
made  no  reply.  "Any  answer  there  may  be  to 
this,"  he  said,  handing  her  the  note,  "will  reach 
the  Governor  promptly — and  safely — if  you  send 
it  through  the  mail,  addressed  to  me — Mr.  Clar- 
ence F.  Perkins — and  put  L.  I.  on  the  lower  left- 
hand  corner." 

39 


Children  of  ToMorrow 

Again  Olivia  felt  that  passionate  rage.  But 
again  she  merely  said  "Thank  you."  And  a 
moment  later  Perkins  was  gone. 

She  had  a  momentary  impulse  to  tear  the  Gov- 
ernor's note  into  pieces  without  deigning  to  read  it. 
How  dared  he  ?  What  sort  of  a  woman  did  he 
think  she  was,  to  send  that  slimy  creature  to  her 
in  this  insinuating  fashion  ? 

Then  she  checked  these  resentful  feelings,  with 
a  laugh  that  she  hoped  was  born  out  of  her 
"good  common-sense."  "Heroics,  Olivia!"  she  re- 
minded herself,  teasingly.  "The  Governor  prob- 
ably wants  to  ask  you  some  ordinary  sort  of  ques- 
tion about  the  letters  you  read,  and  remembering 
what  you  said  about  your  husband,  was  considerate 
enough — as  that  creature  said — to  put  you  to  no 
embarrassment  about  it.'* 

She  tried  to  feel  very  matter-of-fact  as  she  car- 
ried the  note  indoors  and  lit  the  gas  so  she  could 
read  it.  But  her  ringers  shook — there  was  no 
gainsaying  that — and  there  was  something  in  her 
throat  that  hurt,  and  would  not  down.  She 
dreaded  to  look.  Suppose  she  had  misread  him! 
Or,  suppose  he  had  misread  her!  Olivia  felt  she 
could  not  bear  it  if  there  was  anything  in  the  note 
that  hurt.  "Not  that  /  am  so  much  better  than 
other  women  who  have  been — hurt,"  she  told  her- 
self; "  but  because  I  want  to  believe!  I  don't  want 
to  hate  the  world!" 

40 


Olivia 

Then,  resolutely — having  convinced  herself  that 
if  the  note  had  in  it  anything  unwelcome  she 
was  not  to  blame,  having  invited  nothing  of  the 
sort — she  broke  the  seal  and  read. 

The  note  was  on  letter-paper  of  the  Executive 
Mansion;  but  it  was  sealed  in  a  plain  envelope. 
It  read: 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  BARDEEN: 

I  wonder  if  I  half-sufficiently  expressed  to  you  this  morn- 
ing my  very  great  regret  that  you  find  it  impossible  to  go 
on  with  the  work  which  you  are,  I  am  sure,  so  pre-eminently 
fitted  to  do?  I  don't  remember  that  I  even  asked  you  if 
there  was  the  slightest  chance  of  your  reconsidering.  Is 
there?  Pardon  me  if  I  seem  insistent.  But  you  were 
good  enough  to  express  belief  in  my  earnestness;  and  it 
is  going  to  be  a  great  disappointment  to  me  if  I  see  the 
cause  of  justice  in  this  sad  affair  deprived  of  the  service  I 
feel  so  sure  you  could  render  it. 

With  the  profoundest  respect, 

I  am,  yours  very  truly, 

LYMAN  INNES. 

And  when  Olivia  had  read  it — once,  swiftly,  to 
snatch  its  meaning;  and  once  again,  slowly,  to 
see  if  in  her  first  haste  she  had  passed  any  hid- 
den purport  by — her  relief  was  so  great  that  she 
burst  into  tears.  Sinking  to  the  floor  beside  the 
living-room  couch,  she  buried  her  head  among 
its  cushions  and  sobbed  herself,  as  a  child  often 
does,  into  quiet  and  comfort. 

41 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

Olivia  Bardeen  had  had  a  life  of  struggle.  Her 
people  were  gentle,  but  improvident.  Her  father 
had  been  a  professor  in  a  small  "fresh-water"  col- 
lege. He  was  thirty  years  old  before  he  had 
studied  enough — at  home  and  abroad,  all  on  bor- 
rowed capital — to  get  a  position  where  he  could 
earn  fifteen  hundred  dollars  a  year.  He  was  past 
forty  when  he  had  got  his  debts  paid.  And  by 
that  time  he  had  six  children,  of  whom  Olivia 
was  the  eldest.  When  Olivia  was  ten  years  old, 
her  mother  was  still  making  over  for  herself  and 
for  Olivia  the  clothes  that  had  been  in  her  modest 
trousseau;  she  had  never  had  a  new  dress  since 
she  was  married.  And  yet,  as  a  professor's  wife, 
she  had  sometimes  to  appear  at  functions  in  the 
little  town,  and  quite  often  to  entertain  visiting 
notables  in  her  home.  She  had  been  a  wonderful 
woman — that  mother!  Olivia  had  recollections  of 
her  papering  the  bedrooms — it  was  the  utmost 
they  could  compass,  once  when  their  shabbiness 
got  beyond  all  gentility,  to  have  the  parlor  and 
dining-room  "regularly"  papered  by  a  man  from 
the  paint  store;  any  renovating  that  was  done 
elsewhere  had  to  be  much  more  cheaply  com- 
passed— and,  because  running  up  and  down  lad- 
ders was  so  hard  to  do  with  skirts  on,  her  mother 
donned  a  pair  of  overalls  which  the  Professor  wore 
when  he  cleaned  out  the  furnace.  She  could  do 
this,  too — that  truly  wonderful  mother! — without 

42 


Olivia 

sacrifice  of  dignity  in  her  children's  eyes.  Later 
— when  they  had  ceased  to  be  children — it  only 
lent  her  the  great  dignity  of  resourcefulness,  of 
course.  But  even  at  the  time,  it  did  not  make 
her  in  the  least  ridiculous.  They  were  used  to 
such  strange  shifts  to  get  along — those  children — 
that  they  had  learned  to  overlook  the  means, 
often  grotesque,  by  which  they  must  always  reach 
any  desired  end.  And  Olivia  had  other  recollec- 
tions of  her  mother — perhaps  on  that  very  day 
whereon  she  "papered";  for  donning  overalls 
to  hang  wall-paper  was  but  one  of  a  score  of 
like  things  which  might  characterize  any  of  this 
woman's  days — recollections  of  her  as  she  sat 
at  the  head  of  her  plain  board  and  dispensed 
her  scant  fare  with  such  wealth  of  welcome  and 
such  sauce  of  piquant  conversation  that  guests 
went  away  with  no  idea  of  what  they  had  eaten, 
only  of  how  glad  they  were  to  have  been 
there. 

The  Professor  became  paralyzed  when  he  was 
fifty — the  result,  his  doctors  said,  of  the  priva- 
tions he  had  undergone  in  his  long  student  years; 
innutrition  for  the  young,  growing  body  and  over- 
taxation of  the  young,  growing  mind  bring  their 
inevitable  penalty  when  there  should  be  full- 
powered  prime.  Then  the  struggle  which  had 
always  seemed  to  tax  every  particle  of  their 
powers  became  a  hundred-fold  more  bitter;  and 

43 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

yet  they  found  that  somehow  they  were  equal  to 
it — for  they  lived  on. 

When  Charlie  Bardeen  fell  in  love  with  Olivia, 
he  was  so  enraged  at  the  way  she  had  to  work  and 
the  sacrifices  she  had  always  to  be  making  that 
he  seemed  quite  in  danger  of  going  out  of  his 
mind.  Olivia's  young  heart  was  often  bitter,  and 
it  was  Charlie's  impassioned  resentment  of  her 
lot  that  won  her — probably.  He  had  gone  to  col- 
lege where  her  father  taught,  and  their  mild  little 
romance  had  begun  in  Charlie's  junior  year. 
There  was  nothing  to  fan  it,  ever,  beyond  the 
mild  stage,  until  Charlie — under  the  influence  of 
some  momentarily  favorite  author,  no  doubt — 
produced  this  fine  frenzy  of  protectiveness.  It 
was  consoling — in  a  college  senior — but  not  vastly 
promising. 

But  Charlie  got  a  private-secretaryship  the  sec- 
ond year  after  he  graduated,  and  at  a  salary  exactly 
as  good  as  the  Professor  was  able  to  earn  when 
he  had  six  degrees,  including  one  from  Heidel- 
berg. He  wanted  Olivia  to  marry  him  at  once 
"and  get  out  of  all  that  mess  of  things."  This 
staggered  Olivia — a  little,  but  not  so  much  as  it 
should  have  done.  She  was  shocked  at  Charlie's 
irresponsibility,  but  she  allowed  herself  to  excuse 
it  on  the  ground  of  his  youth  and  of  his  eagerness. 
For  eagerness  is  appealing  to  the  girl-heart,  espe- 
cially to  the  girl  who  has  known  so  much  struggle 

44 


Olivia 

and  renunciation.  And  Olivia  didn't  know  how 
to  question  a  man's  eagerness;  how  to  test  it  for 
selfishness,  and  to  be  afraid. 

She  refused,  firmly  and  finally,  to  slip  out  and 
leave  her  share  of  the  burden  on  her  mother's 
shoulders.  When  Charlie  realized  that  she  was 
immovable  about  this,  he  said,  "Well,  then,  let 
us  get  married  and  live  with  them.  I'll  pay  your 
way,  and  mine,  and  that  '11  surely  help  some. 
Things  '11  be  easier  then  than  they  are  now." 

"But  they'll  have  to  move  to  the  city/'  she 
reminded  him. 

"Of  course.  But  that's  where  the  boys '11  have 
to  be,  anyway,  if  they're  going  to  work." 

So  they  were  married.  .  .  .  Olivia  was  per- 
fectly fair  about  it.  She  admitted  to  herself,  and 
to  Charlie,  that  it  was  more  than  should  have 
been  expected  of  any  young  man — shouldering 
the  cares  of  such  a  household  at  the  outset  of  his 
business  life.  For,  of  course,  that  was  what  it 
amounted  to. 

She  couldn't  blame  him  when,  after  two  years, 
he  insisted  on  a  home  of  his  own.  He  was  tired 
of  the  air  of  anxiety;  tired  of  the  atmosphere  of 
illness;  tired  of  having  his  young  wife  always  so 
tied  down  with  cares  that,  as  he  said,  he  hardly 
saw  more  of  her  than  if  he  were  a  mere  boarder  in 
the  house.  Tiredest  of  all  was  he  of  living  so 
close  to  a  hundred  needs,  all  of  them  urgent,  that 

45 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

it  was  impossible  to  keep  within  one's  "board" 
limit,  putting  the  rest  in  bank  or  into  simple  in- 
dulgences, without  feeling  like  a  selfish  brute. 
So  they  moved.  It  broke  Olivia's  heart,  but  she 
offered  no  resistance,  for  by  this  time  she  was 
able  to  look  her  married  situation  clearly  in  the 
face  and  estimate  its  further  prospects.  They 
were  not  blissful  prospects,  but  she  did  not  feel 
that  that  altered  her  duty  in  any  way.  Charlie 
was  not  to  blame,  she  felt;  he  was  essentially  the 
same  Charlie  she  had  always  known,  only  she 
had  not  always  known  how  to  estimate  him. 
There  was  nothing  glaringly  wrong  about  him; 
Olivia  could  have  got  on  with  him  much  better 
if  there  had  been  some  big  fault,  some  pathetic 
weakness.  He  was  just  selfish — that  was  all 
— just  ordinarily  and  quite  understandably,  but 
hopelessly,  selfish.  He  wanted  to  live  comforta- 
bly and  to  get  along  creditably.  So  long  as  he 
was  neither  resisted  nor  entreated,  he  was  a  suf- 
ficiently amiable  man  to  live  with.  He  worked 
steadily;  he  paid  his  household  bills;  he  never 
drank.  But  when  Constance  was  in  her  dreaded 
"second  summer,"  ailing  and  fretful  all  the  time, 
and  Olivia  was  nursing  and  tending  her,  and 
doing  her  own  housework,  and  going  over  to  her 
mother's  every  day  to  try  to  lend  a  helping  hand 
in  the  sickroom  where  her  father  lay  gasping  his 
life  away  in  the  torrid  heat,  Charlie  seemed  un- 


Olivia 

conscious  of  the  burden  she  was  bearing.  He 
never  raged  against  the  toilsomeness  of  her  lot. 
Olivia  noted  this,  grimly.  But  she  made  no 
complaint;  there  was  nothing  to  be  hoped  for  in 
complaining  to  Charlie.  He  was  the  sort  of  man 
who  never  took  spiritual  stock  of  himself,  either 
on  his  own  initiative  or  on  another's  urging;  noth- 
ing was  further  from  his  thoughts  than  whether 
he  was  a  better  or  a  worse,  a  meaner  or  a  finer, 
man  to-day  than  yesterday.  He  lived  in  the  pres- 
ent— so  much  so  that  he  had  not  even  an  acute 
dissatisfaction  with  being,  at  thirty-seven,  a  private 
secretary,  just  as  he  had  been  at  twenty-four. 

Olivia  was  determined  that  for  Constance's  sake 
she  would  never  lose  her  spirit.  It  was  the  efforts 
her  mother-love  prompted  her  to,  and  the  sweet- 
ness of  it  swelling  in  her  heart,  that  made  a  late 
springtime  burgeon  in  her  soul.  She  had  been 
feeling,  this  last  year  or  two,  little  evidences  of 
the  tribute  the  world  pays,  in  passing,  to  at- 
tractiveness. Now  and  then  some  one  who  had 
known  her  long  would  say:  "Olivia  is  growing 
pretty."  Now  and  then  some  one  who  met  her, 
or  saw  her,  for  the  first  time,  would  show — as 
Lyman  Innes  had  unwittingly  shown  that  morn- 
ing— an  instant  admiration.  Olivia  was  waking 
up  to  a  new  phase  of  life.  She  had  felt  a  flutter- 
ing consciousness  of  it  momentarily  before  to-day. 
But  to-day  the  consciousness  had  stayed  with  her; 

47 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

had  dominated  all  her  thoughts;  had  refused  to 
be  driven  out  of  her  mind. 

When  she  returned  from  the  Capitol  to  go 
about  her  ordinary  task  of  getting  dinner,  her 
heart  was  hot  with  rebelliousness.  It  was  true, 
as  the  Governor  had  said,  she  could  have  been  a 
help!  And  what  a  difference  it  would  have  made 
to  her — feeling  that  she  was  playing  a  part  in  a 
big  issue;  associating  daily,  even  if  for  only  a 
few  minutes,  with  a  man  like  the  Governor;  earn- 
ing, too,  some  money  to  relieve  the  pinch  of  their 
circumstances!  But  no!  Charlie  wouldn't  have 
it;  she  might  bring  him  into  some  disrepute  with 
his  employer,  the  bitterest  of  all  those  who  de- 
nounced the  Governor  for  refusing  to  call  out  the 
State  troops.  .  .  . 

She  got  up,  when  she  had  eased  her  heart  with 
crying,  and  went  into  the  kitchen  to  bathe  her 
hot,  tear-stained  face.  She  looked  at  the  kitchen 
clock.  It  was  not  nine  o'clock — too  soon  to  call 
Constance  in  and  make  her  go  to  bed  in  her  low- 
ceiled,  stuffy  little  room.  She  would  read  awhile. 
But  the  book  she  had  found  interesting  night 
before  last  palled  on  her  unendurably  this  even- 
ing. Last  evening  she  had  had  the  letters.  How 
fascinating  they  were — all  those  various  points  of 
view!  And  what  a  fool  she  had  been  to  try  to  tell 
Charlie  about  them,  and  about  her  new  under- 
taking, when  he  came  up  at  eleven  o'clock  from 

48 


Olivia 

his  loitering  downtown!  She  could  have  read  the 
letters  and  made  her  reports,  and  Charlie  need 
never  have  been  any  the  wiser! 

With  sudden  determination,  she  closed  her  book, 
went  over  to  the  little  oak  writing-desk,  and  wrote 
a  note.  Disregarding  all  forms,  she  began: 

I  am  deeply  honored  with  the  confidence  you  express  in 
my  ability  to  be  of  service.  I  want  to  help.  I  cannot  be 
satisfied  not  to  help.  And,  as  I  told  you,  I  need  to  do 
something.  This  seems  such  a  Heaven-sent  opportunity 
that  I  am  going  to  grasp  it.  No  embarrassment  to  Mr. 
Bardeen  can  ensue  if  he  knows  nothing  of  my  reconsider- 
ing. As  no  harm  to  any  one  can  possibly  be  involved,  and 
we  hope  that,  on  the  contrary,  good  may  come,  I  am  per- 
suaded that  there  can  be  nothing  wrong  in  a  little  subter- 
fuge. These  times  are  times  of  war — industrial  war — and 
I  am  aware  that  ingenuousness  has  not  always  been  the 
best  servant  of  warfare.  I  will  call  at  the  Executive  Offices 
to-morrow  morning  about  eleven. 

This  she  sealed,  addressed  to  Mr.  Clarence  F. 
Perkins,  wrote  L.  I.  in  the  lower  left-hand  corner, 
and  carried  out  to  the  mail-box. 

Then  she  called  Constance  in,  and  beguiled  her 
reluctant  going  to  bed  with  such  pretty  playful- 
ness that  Constance  was  enchanted. 

"You  act  lovely  and  glad"  said  the  child 
gratefully,  as  her  mother  kissed  her  good-night. 


49 


CHAPTER  IV 

"  NOR    EVER    ANY    MORE  " 

THE  summer  dragged  its  torrid  length  along. 
Starving,  but  stubborn,  the  strikers  held 
out.  Sullen  in  their  rage,  the  employers  refused 
compromise.  And  the  public  clamored  unceas- 
ingly. Of  all  the  clamor  that  got  into  print,  or 
into  general  circulation  in  the  strata  that  print 
influenced,  not  much  was  favorable  to  the  starv- 
ing men.  Lyman  Innes  might  well  have  felt  the 
whole  world  against  him  had  it  not  been  for 
those  letters  that  kept  pouring  in.  Many  of  them 
were  abusive,  too;  but  there  were  others  that 
made  his  courage  unflinching.  That  part  of  the 
world  in  sympathy  with  the  strikers  soon  got  to 
know  where  his  interest  lay,  and  it  poured  its 
gratefulness  in  upon  him  as  openly  as,  for  his 
sake,  it  dared.  The  other  part,  meanwhile,  ex- 
pressed a  contempt  or  hate  for  him  according  to 
the  degree  in  which  its  convenience  or  its  profit 
was  involved. 

The  times  that  were  hardest  for  him  were  those 
when  here  and  there  in  the  State  sundry  men 
among  the  strikers,  less  self-disciplined  than  the 

5° 


"Nor  Ever  Any  More" 

rest,  let  their  passions  fly  to  deeds  of  violence.  A 
broken  window  in  a  strike  neighborhood,  or  a 
head  broken  in  such  a  saloon  row  as  passed  un- 
noticed at  other  times,  and  the  clamor  for  the 
troops  became  frenzied.  Grimly,  then,  Lyman 
Innes  was  wont  to  turn  to  the  records  of  sack 
and  pillage  and  arson  and  rape  among  the 
armies  of  the  Union  fighting  for  an  undivided 
country  in  which  no  man  should  be  a  slave.  The 
generals  who  led  those  armies  acknowledged — 
some  of  them  indifferently,  some  sadly  and  in 
shame — their  inability  to  curb  these  brutal  pas- 
sions in  their  victorious  fighting-men.  How  much 
less,  then,  Lyman  Innes  urged,  could  be  expected 
of  an  army  of  men  who  were  not  winning,  and 
whose  wives  and  children  were  crying  for  bread. 
He  considered  the  self-restraint  of  the  strikers 
marvellous,  on  the  whole,  and  he  longed  with  all 
his  heart  to  tell  them  so.  But  every  expression 
that  went  out  from  the  Executive  Offices  had  to 
be  guarded  in  the  extreme — not  for  the  sake  of 
Lyman  Innes' s  political  future,  but  for  the  sake 
of  present  peace.  Impeachment  lay  in  wait  for 
him,  he  knew — holding  off  only  for  evidence.  A 
single  ill-advised  utterance,  and  he  might  be  put 
where  no  steadfast  resistance  of  his  would  keep 
State  troops  from  offering  armed  threats  to  men 
whose  cause  was  just.  And  failure  to  realize  this 
made  some  who  should  have  held  him  most  grate- 

51 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

fully  in  their  hearts  speak  bitterly  of  him,  as  of 
one  who  would  not  dare. 

At  length,  appeal  was  made  to  Federal  power; 
the  President  was  besought  to  take  the  situation 
in  hand  and  to  send  United  States  troops  and 
establish  martial  law.  Delaying  answer  to  this 
demand,  the  President  sent  for  Governor  Innes. 

The  hurried  trip  to  Washington  was  made 
quietly.  It  was  given  out,  at  the  Capital,  that 
the  Governor  had  gone  to  spend  a  week-end  with 
his  family.  Instead,  he  remained  a  little  longer 
on  the  train  and  went  to  the  summer  Capital  of 
the  nation  which,  in  that  administration,  was  not 
far  from  Washington. 

The  Governor  had  been  back  at  his  desk  but  an 
hour  or  two,  on  Monday  morning,  when  Perkins 
opened  the  door  of  his  own  private  office  for 
Olivia.  With  the  briefest  possible  acknowledg- 
ment to  him,  Olivia  sat  down  (as  her  wont  was) 
at  his  desk,  and  Perkins  withdrew.  He  could  not 
help  knowing  that  Olivia  disliked  him,  and  as  he 
could  not  see  the  slightest  reason  why  she  should, 
he,  naturally,  disliked  her  in  turn. 

She  was — as  far  as  those  few  of  the  office  force 
who  ever  saw  her  were  concerned — a  woman  who 
did  some  clerical  work  at  home  to  help  Mr.  Per- 
kins through  the  unusual  mass  of  correspond- 
ence. She  came  mornings  about  ten  o'clock,  and 
worked  for  a  while,  getting  her  stuff  together,  in 

52 


"Nor  Ever  Any  More" 

Mr.  Perkins's  office  while  he  was  busy  in  the  Gov- 
ernor's private  room,  with  orders  not  to  be  dis- 
turbed. Her  name  was  not  on  the  pay-rolls. 
Presumably,  Mr.  Perkins  himself  paid  for  her 
assistance.  No  one  Olivia  encountered  in  her 
comings  and  goings  seemed  to  give  the  slightest 
curious  heed  to  her.  It  was  only  Perkins — be- 
cause of  what  she  knew  that  he  knew — whom  she 
hated;  yes,  and  because  of  what  she  knew  he 
thought  of  her  that  she  did  not  deserve.  His 
inability  to  comprehend  what  she  had  no  right 
to  expect  that  he  could  comprehend,  enraged  her. 

When  he  was  gone  this  morning,  she  took  off 
her  hat  and  ran  her  fingers  through  her  damp 
hair  to  break  up  the  little  ringlets  that  formed  in 
it  when  she  was  overheated.  Then  she  went  to 
the  window-embrasure  and  stood  there,  listening 
for  a  hand  upon  the  inner  door,  her  heart  beating 
nervously. 

The  instant  that  door  opened  and  she  saw  his 
face,  she  should  know  how  his  plea  to  the  Presi- 
dent had  been  received.  She  felt  that  she  could 
not  bear  it  if  he  had  lost.  And  yet,  if  he  had  lost, 
she  must  not  only  bear  it,  but  she  must  help  him 
to  bear  it,  too.  She  was  nerving  herself  to  what 
she  felt  might  be  the  ordeal  of  her  life,  when  the 
door  opened  and  he  was  there. 

Olivia  swayed  slightly  and  clutched  at  a  heavy 
curtain.  In  an  instant  he  was  beside  her. 

53 


Children  of  ToMorrow 

"Why,  Pardner!"  he  said — it  was  his  own  name 
for  her. 

"I'm  ashamed  of  *  Pardner/"  she  answered, 
trying  to  laugh  but  unable  to  conceal  the  little, 
hysterical  note  in  her  voice.  "But  oh!  I  was 
so  afraid!" 

She  knew  then,  without  asking,  that  her  fears 
had  been — not  groundless,  by  any  means,  but 
unnecessary;  it  was  the  sharp  reaction  of  her 
relief  that  made  her  lose  her  poise. 

"  I  was  so  afraid ! "  she  repeated.  "  It  has  seemed 
weeks  since  you  went — I  have  been  so  anxious." 

"I  would  have  wired  you,"  he  said,  "but  I  did 
not  dare." 

"Of  course  not."  She  said  nothing  to  him  of 
what  it  had  been  to  her,  those  three  days,  to  con- 
ceal the  anxiousness  and  go  ordinarily  about  her 
duties;  for,  not  by  art  but  by  instinct,  she  kept 
from  him,  as  much  as  she  could,  the  stress  she 
was  constantly  under  that  she  might  be  his 
"Pardner." 

He  held  open  for  her  the  door  into  his  own 
private  office,  and  they  went  in.  It  was  their 
hour.  There  was  a  chair  she  always  sat  in;  when 
she  was  gone,  he  laid  an  ever-ready  armful  of 
Official  Records  on  it  so  that  no  one  else  could 
sit  there  till  she  came  again.  He  picked  up  the 
fat,  black  volumes  now,  and  she  smiled;  for  he 
had  told  her. 

54 


"Nor  Ever  Any  More" 

"Well?"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him.  "Tell 
me  every  word  of  it  that  you  can/* 

So  he  told  her — now  pacing  up  and  down  as  he 
talked,  now  standing  for  a  minute  at  a  time  and 
looking  down  into  her  eager  face — about  his  inter- 
view with  the  President. 

"It  was  really  your  interview,  Pardner,"  he 
began.  "Things  were  all  against  me  at  the  out- 
set. When  I  pleaded  the  earnestness  of  the  strik- 
ing men,  the  President  came  back  at  me  with  the 
recital  of  what  he  called  their  lawlessness.  It 
was  then  I  got  out  your  data — the  selected  letters 
— the  facts  and  figures  you  worked  so  hard  to 
bring  together.  The  President  was  tremendously 
impressed.  He  is  a  big  man,  and  I  am  sure  he 
wants  to  be  fair — fair  to  everybody,  but  if  a  little 
more  fair  to  one  than  to  another,  then  to  the  man 
with  most  against  him.  He  isn't  a  sentimentalist 
in  any  sense;  he  is  not  appealed  to  by  the  under 
dog  because  he  is  under,  but  only  if  he  is  unfairly 
bested — if  his  cause  is  just.  I  have  almost  never 
talked  with  a  man  who  impressed  me  as  having 
so  unimpassioned  a  love  of  justice.  Lincoln,  you 
know" — he  smiled  at  her — "our  Lincoln,  was  not 
unimpassioned — perhaps  the  biggest  men  never 
are.  But  unless  you  can  have  a  ruler  whose 
splendid  passions  run  to  righteousness  as  under 
Divine  guidance,  I  reckon  the  next  best  kind  is 
one  who  has  an  all-compelling  love  for  right  in 

55 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

the  abstract.  This  President  of  ours  is  a  kind  of 
Solomon  in  judgment.  And  you  feel  that  he 
would  make,  on  the  same  grounds,  the  same 
decision  whether  all  or  none  of  his  own  interests 
were  at  stake." 

There  was  so  much  to  tell  her,  and  the  time 
was  so  short — imperatively  shorter  this  morning 
than  usual,  because  of  the  number  of  persons  who 
must  be  seen  in  conferences.  He  talked  rapidly, 
seldom  taking  his  eyes  from  her  face  with  its 
radiance  of  eager  interest.  But  he  felt  that  he 
had  hardly  begun,  when  the  time  of  his  first  ap- 
pointment was  at  hand. 

"I'll  save  comment  on  these,"  she  said,  indi- 
cating the  .letters  and  newspaper  clippings  she 
had  selected  for  him  to  read,  "until  to-morrow. 
There's  nothing  that  cannot  wait." 

"And  this  evening?"  he  asked,  as  he  held  open 
for  her  the  door  into  Perkins's  room. 

"As  always/'  she  answered,  "I  do  not  know. 
But  I'll  try." 

When  they  could,  they  stole  an  hour  in  the 
evening,  sometimes.  There  was  a  small  park  not 
many  squares  away  either  from  the  Governor's 
Mansion  or  from  the  little,  slate-colored,  two- 
story  cottage  where  Olivia  had  her  home.  When 
Charlie  was  downtown — as  he  nearly  always  was 
— and  Constance  was  playing  about  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, Olivia  could  sometimes  manage  to  slip 

56 


"Nor  Ever  Any  More" 

down  there  for  a  little  while  after  the  supper 
dishes  were  done  and  before  it  was  time  to  see 
that  Constance  got  to  bed.  She  never  could  be 
sure  that  she  could  get  away.  But  almost  always 
he  managed  to  be  there  waiting  for  her,  on  a 
retired  bench,  like  a  grocery-boy  swain  awaiting 
his  servant-maid  sweetheart. 

Only  once — both  of  them  trembling  every  min- 
ute with  realization  of  the  risk  they  were  running 
— had  he  been  to  her  home  for  just  long  enough 
to  satisfy  himself  with  a  glimpse  of  the  background 
against  which  she  lived  the  other  hours,  and  to 
gratify  her  with  the  memory  of  his  presence  there. 
And  once — shaking  guiltily  with  the  same  sense 
of  risk — he  had  been  able  to  stand  with  her  for  a 
few  brief  moments  beneath  the  War  Governor's 
portrait;  to  see  her  sit,  for  a  fraction  of  relentlessly 
hurrying  time,  in  the  chair  by  the  table,  where 
the  lamplight  shone  on  her  soft  white  throat. 

For  the  rest,  their  snatches  of  companionship 
were  taken  in  the  little  park  where  it  rather 
grimly  amused  him  that  the  head  of  the  State 
should  have  to  go,  along  with  those  others  who, 
for  one  reason  or  another,  had  no  place  else  to 
meet  the  objects  of  their  affections. 

That  evening  he  waited  in  vain  for  her  to  come. 
When  the  Capitol  clock  pealed  out  nine  strokes, 
he  knew  that  he  need  no  longer  expect  her;  and, 
driven  by  a  disappointment  so  keen  that  it  ought 

57 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

to  have  alarmed  him,  he  walked  across  the  park, 
away  from  the  Governor's  Mansion  and  in  the 
direction  of  the  Bardeen  cottage. 

There  were  lights  burning  downstairs  and  in 
more  than  one  room  above.  He  knew  this  was 
not  ordinary,  for  he  had  many  times  passed  this 
way  about  this  time,  after  an  unrewarded  waiting. 
Olivia  was  frugal  of  gas,  he  knew. 

Immediately,  the  sick  fear  seized  him  that  she 
was  ill.  Why  he  jumped  to  the  conclusion  of  her 
illness — not  Charlie's,  nor  Constance's — he  could 
not  explain  to  himself;  but  we  are  always  most 
fearful  for  what  we  hold  most  precious,  as  if  we 
still  believed  in  fates  or  furies  who  keep  watch  to 
steal  our  treasure,  not  because  they  want  it,  but 
because  we  love  it  so. 

Lurking  in  shadows  that  would  hide  him  from 
recognition,  Lyman  Innes  hung  about  the  cottage 
for  what  seemed  to  him  an  eternity  of  time,  watch- 
ing for  her  shadow  to  pass  across  a  lighted,  opaque 
shade,  or  for  some  one  to  enter  or  leave  the 
house  who  might  give  him  a  clew  to  what  was 
happening  there.  But  the  lights  burned  on;  no 
shadow  reassured  him;  and  no  one  came  or  went. 
Finally,  in  an  agony  of  apprehension,  he  went 
home. 

That  night  Lyman  Innes  spent  in  vigil.  Part 
of  the  time  he  was  two  men,  as  separate  as  the 
War  Governor  and  the  Cavalier;  and  one  of  the 

58 


"Nor  Ever  Any  More" 

two  argued  mightily  with  the  other.  Then,  again, 
there  was  but  one  man  present,  and  he  looked  up 
at  the  laughing  Cavalier  as  at  one  who  could 
understand. 

Pacing  up  and  down  past  the  chair  where  She 
had  sat — once  in  reality,  but  so  often,  in  his  fancy 
— it  was  some  time  before  his  preoccupied  gaze 
fell  on  a  letter  on  the  library  table.  It  was  from 
Julia;  and  he  remembered,  with  a  guilty  start, 
that  it  had  been  there  this  morning  when  he 
came  from  the  train.  Even  now,  he  found  his 
strong  impulse  was  not  to  open  it — he  dreaded 
the  reiteration  of  Julia's  reproaches — but  to  put 
it  in  his  pocket  so  that  the  servants  might  not  see 
it  lying  there  unopened. 

And  yet  in  a  week  Julia  herself  would  be  back; 
would  be  sitting,  doubtless,  in  that  very  chair 
Olivia  had  sat  in.  He  had  not  been  disloyal  to 
Julia  in  deed — only  in  thought.  But  Julia,  who 
believed  firmly  in  the  natural  depravity  of  all 
men  and  some  women,  would  never,  if  any  inkling 
of  the  affair  got  to  her  ears,  credit  him,  or  Olivia, 
with  less  than  the  blackest  infamy. 

It  might  never  get  to  Julia's  ears  ?  Possibly 
not.  And  yet,  once  the  strike  was  settled,  or 
public  interest  in  it  died  down,  there  would  be 
no  excuse  for  Olivia's  services  at  the  Capitol; 
and  how  else — once  life  took  on  its  normal  routine 
again — could  he  hope  to  see  her  ? 

59 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"Look  at  you  to-night!"  one  of  the  two  men 
he  was  reminded  him.  "See  the  agony  of  ap- 
prehensiveness  you  are  in  because  she  did  not 
keep  a  silly  little  rendezvous  in  a  public  park. 
Can  you  go  on  this  way  ?  All  fall  and  winter 
long,  are  you  going  to  let  yourself  go  into  a  frenzy 
every  time  you  want  to  see  her  and  can't  compass 
it?  Can  you  govern  a  great  State  and  be  gov- 
erned by  a  weakness  like  that  ?  I'll  grant  you 
that  she's  sweet  and  gentle  and  good,  and  has 
been  a  great  help  and  comfort  to  you.  And  I'll 
grant  you  that  you  don't  have  much  happiness  in 
Julia.  But  what  is  there  for  you  to  do  ?  Julia  is 
there,  and  likely  to  stay.  You  couldn't  put  her 
away  from  you — in  the  quaint  Bible  phrase — 
and,  for  the  children's  sake,  you  know  that  you 
wouldn't  if  you  could.  What  then  ?  A  con- 
tinued clandestineness  ?  You  know  the  hideous 
unwholesomeness  of  that!  Will  you  make  your- 
self a  slave  to  secrecy  and  fear  ?  This  is  a  good 
time  to  reckon  with  yourself,  and  to  look  the 
probable  future  frankly  in  the  face." 

"But  what  of  her?"  urged  the  other  pleader. 
"Will  you  withdraw  yourself  out  of  her  poor  little 
life  at  the  moment  your  peace  of  mind  demands  ? 
You  have  made  yourself  a  factor  in  her  hungry 
days.  When  you  disregard  your  own  heart's 
emptiness,  can  you  disregard  her  heart's  empti- 
ness, too  ? " 

60 


"Nor  Ever  Any  More" 

Back  and  forth,  back  and  forth  swung  the 
argument.  As  soon  as  it  seemed  established  that 
there  was  nothing  in  reason  to  do  but  to  try  to 
forget,  up  would  come  a  great  surge  of  mixed 
tenderness  and  egotism,  and  he  would  cry  out 
that  he  could  not  desert  her.  It  was  well  on 
toward  morning  when  he  left  the  library  to  go 
upstairs;  and  the  pendulum  in  his  mind  was  still 
swinging.  But  it  was  something  that  when  he 
passed  the  Cavalier  he  did  not  look  up  into  the 
mocking  eyes. 

In  the  morning,  with  a  day  full  of  grave  busi- 
ness before  him,  Lyman  Innes  found  that  the  up- 
permost, ever-present  question  in  his  mind  was: 
Will  she  come  ? 

She  did  not  come.  Instead,  Perkins  brought 
him  in  a  letter  addressed  to  Clarence  F.  Perkins 
— Personal. 

"  Evidently  for  you,  sir,"  said  Perkins,  indicating 
the  L.  I.  in  the  corner — and  withdrawing  discreetly 
without  suggesting  that  he  knew  the  authorship. 

Lyman  Innes's  first  thought  was  one  of  relief — 
at  least  she  was  not  ill,  not  very  ill,  or  she  could 
not  have  written.  Then,  although  he  believed  he 
had  decided  what  he  must  do,  he  was  conscious 
— as  he  broke  the  seal — of  a  fear  which  made  him 
sick  at  heart.  Suppose  she  wrote  to  say  she  could 
never  come  again! 

61 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

Her  note  had  no  formal  address. 

"Some  time,"  she  said,  "I  will  explain  to  you 
—I  hope!  Just  now  it  must  be  enough  to  say  I 
cannot  come — to-day,  nor  ever  any  more.  I  com- 
fort myself  with  believing  that  you  know  what 
this  means  to  me!  The  work  I  have  I  will  get 
back  to  you  very  soon — at  the  first  opportunity/' 

It  had  come!  He  sat  as  one  stunned,  staring 
stupidly  at  the  chair  piled  with  Official  Records. 
"Nor  ever  any  more!"  .  .  .  All  morning,  as  he 
went  about  his  difficult  work,  that  phrase  lay  on 
his  heart  like  a  weight  of  doom:  "Nor  ever  any 
more ! " 

Olivia  was  through  her  work  early  on  Monday 
evening.  Charlie  did  not  come  home  to  supper, 
so  she  saved  for  next  day  the  meat  she  had  bought 
principally  on  his  account;  and  it  was  a  quick 
and  easy  matter  clearing  up  after  the  little  bite  she 
and  Constance  ate.  He  might  come  late,  though; 
anything  like  a  regular  appearance  at  meal  times 
— even  now,  when  he  was  unemployed — was  not 
among  the  courtesies  he  conceded  to  Olivia.  So 
she  sat  down  on  her  back  door-step  to  wait;  the 
front  of  the  house  was  no  place  to  appear  if  one 
did  not  wish  to  invite  calls  from  the  neighbors, 
all  of  whom  spent  the  warm  evenings  in  visiting 
from  porch  to  porch. 

A  little  gust  of  breeze  slammed  the  kitchen 
62 


"Nor  Ever  Any  More" 

door  shut  behind  her.  Absorbed  in  her  reveries, 
and  cut  off  by  the  closing  of  the  door,  she  did  not 
hear  Charlie  come  in.  He  called  her.  No  answer, 
Hating,  man-like,  the  dark,  silent  house,  he  lit 
the  gas  in  the  parlor,  then  in  the  dining-room. 
He  looked  into  the  shadowy  kitchen.  She  was 
not  there.  He  went  upstairs,  lighting  the  gas  in 
her  room,  in  Constance's,  in  his  own.  Not  rind- 
ing her,  he  came  down  again,  leaving  the  lights 
burning. 

When  the  Capitol  clock  struck  eight,  she  got  up 
to  go,  thinking  he  would  not  come  now.  The 
kitchen  door  was  self-locking,  so  she  went  around 
the  side  of  the  house  to  close  the  front  door — the 
only  precaution  that  was  ever  necessary  when 
she  left  the  place  for  this  brief  hour  while  the 
street  was  full  of  neighbors,  watching  and  gos- 
siping, and  of  children  at  play. 

As  she  went  up  the  porch  steps,  she  met  him, 
coming  out  the  front  door. 

"Where  have  you  been  ?"  he  demanded,  accus- 
ingly. 

"Sitting  on  the  back  steps — waiting  for  you," 
she  answered,  "and  the  kitchen  door  blew  shut." 

"It's  a  lie!"  he  shouted. 

Olivia  looked  over  her  shoulder  to  see  if  any 
one's  attention  had  been  attracted  by  his  loud 
tones.  Ignoring  his  insult,  she  begged  pacifi- 
cally: 

63 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"Come  in-doors,  Charlie,  and  let  me  get  your 
supper." 

"I  don't  want  any  supper.  I  want  to  know 
where  you've  been." 

"I  told  you  where  I  have  been/* 

"And  I  told  you  it  was  a  lie — a  damned  lie!" 

"If  you  will  come  into  the  house,  and  talk 
quietly — if  you  can't  talk  respectfully — I'll  dis- 
cuss it  with  you;  but  not  out  here." 

Sullenly  he  followed  her  in.  She  went  to  the 
windows  and  closed  them.  He  knew  what  she 
meant:  "In  case  you  forget  yourself."  When 
she  made  a  move  to  turn  out  the  gas  in  the  dining- 
room,  he  stopped  her. 

"Let  it  burn,"  he  said.  "I  want  light  on  a  good 
many  things — lots  of  light!" 

His  voice  was  hoarse,  and  he  had  about  him  a 
kind  of  ugliness  Olivia  had  never  seen  in  him 
before;  he  was  often  sulky,  but  this  was  different 
— this  was  rage,  blind,  passionate  rage.  As  well 
try  to  argue  with  a  madman,  she  knew. 

Not  knowing  how  to  begin  to  pacify  him,  she 
waited  for  him.  It  was  useless  to  offer  defense 
until  she  knew  what  his  charge  was.  It  would 
be  useless  in  any  case,  she  reflected — before  or 
after  accusation — but  doubly  useless  before.  So 
.she  waited. 

"Well,"  he  said,"  have  you  got  anything  to  say  ?" 

"About  what?" 


"Nor  Ever  Any  More" 

"Don't  shift!"  he  cried  menacingly. 

"About  where  I  was  after  I  washed  my  supper 
dishes?" 

"About  where  you  have  been  spending  most  of 
your  time  lately." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  I  have  spent 
most  of  my  time  lately,  as  always,  at  home  doing 
my  housework." 

"You  have  NOT!"  he  thundered. 

"Is  there  any  use  talking  to  you  at  all?"  she 
asked  icily. 

"Not  much!  I'm  small  fry,  after  a  Governor, 
I  know.  But  you're  married  to  me — and  I've  got 
an  accounting  due.  I  mean  to  get  it,  too.  So, 
begin!" 

His  manner  filled  her  with  rage.  His  look,  his 
tone,  accused  her  of  the  vilest  crimes.  Already, 
in  his  heart,  her  guilt  was  proved.  He  ordered 
her  to  plead,  only  that  he  might  have  the  mon- 
strous satisfaction  of  telling  her  her  plea  was  vain. 

She  would  not  plead!  She  turned  from  him 
and  walked  swiftly  toward  the  stairs. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  demanded. 

"To  my  room — anywhere — to  shut  myself  away 
from  insult,"  she  answered. 

He  seized  her  roughly  and  shook  her  with  in- 
sensate violence. 

"To  your  room!"  he  shouted,  "but  not  any- 
where else!  I'll  fool  him  for  once — and  forever!" 

65 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

She  thought  she  read  murder  in  his  eyes,  and 
with  a  mighty  effort  she  wrenched  herself  free 
and  fled  up  the  stairs.  When  he  reached  her 
door  she  had  it  locked. 

He  tried  the  door,  then  laughed.  "That's  a 
flimsy  protection  for  you,"  he  called,  "but  I 
guess  it  '11  do  for  me.  Throw  me  the  key  over  the 
transom/* 

There  was  no  reply. 

"Throw  me  the  key,"  he  repeated,  "or  I'll 
crash  in  the  door."  He  thrust  his  weight  against 
the  door,  and  it  creaked  ominously.  She  drew 
the  key  out  of  th*  lock  and  flung  it  to  him;  any- 
thing for  a  brief  respite  from  the  sight  and  sound 
of  him.  He  fumbled  for  it  in  the  half-lighted 
hall;  and  a  moment  later  she  heard  him  going 
heavily  downstairs. 

When  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  had  died  away, 
Olivia  turned  out  the  gas  that  was  burning  in  her 
room  and  threw  herself  on  her  bed.  She  was 
too  infuriated  to  cry — too  full  of  rage  even  to 
think.  She  could  only  lie  there  and  feel  the  hot 
surges  rise  in  her,  and  pass — burning — over  her 
to  her  very  finger-tips  where  they  oozed  out 
impotently. 

His  hand,  clutching  the  key,  in  his  pocket,. 
Charlie  Bardeen  walked  out  of  his  house  and 
across  the  little  park — three  squares  away — ta 

66 


"Nor  Ever  Any  More" 

the  Executive  Mansion,  where  he  rang  the  bell 
imperatively  and  asked  for  the  Governor. 

"The  Governor  is  not  at  home,"  the  butler 
said.  "Any  name  or  message,  sir?" 

Charlie  Bardeen  hesitated.  Then,  "No/*  he 
answered;  "I'll  call  again." 

He  recrossed  the  park — where  the  Governor 
sat,  waiting — and  went  back  to  his  own  street. 
He  had  no  intention  of  going  into  his  house — that 
seemed  impossible  to  him — but  he  wanted  to  see 
if  anything  had  happened. 

Noting  that  the  light  was  out  in  Olivia's  room, 
he  was  filled  with  a  horrid  suspicion.  Not  even 
the  key  he  clutched  stilled  his  questioning.  There 
might  be  another  key!  He  entered  and  stole 
silently  up  the  stairs.  At  the  door,  he  listened. 
There  was  no  sound.  He  tried  the  knob;  the 
lock  was  fast.  Withdrawing  the  key  from  his 
pocket,  he  opened  the  door  and  strode  in.  Olivia 
sat  up  on  her  bed — fear  swallowed  up  in  anger — 
and  confronted  him  as  he  lighted  the  gas.  Neither 
of  them  spoke.  His  glance  about  the  room  was 
full  of  insult.  Then  he  turned  out  the  light  and 
went  out — locking  the  door  after  him  as  ostenta- 
tiously as  a  jailer  might  have  done. 

He  had  been  gone  but  a  few  minutes  when  Con- 
stance came  in.  Frightened  at  the  emptiness  of 
the  lighted  house,  Constance  called,  "Mamma!" 

The    appealing   little    cry   reached    into   those 

67 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

black  depths  where  Olivia  lay,  hating  life  with 
passionate  resentment  of  all — or  nearly  all — it 
had  dealt  her.  Ah!  but  there  was  something  that 
she  cherished!  She  was  on  her  feet  and  beside 
the  door  in  an  instant. 

"Here,  darling!'*  she  called  reassuringly. 

Constance  tried  the  door.  From  the  other  side 
of  it  came  her  mother's  laugh. 

"A  funny  thing  has  happened!"  Olivia  told  the 
child.  "  Mother's  locked  in !  And  she  has  lost  the 
key." 

It  did  not  occur  to  Constance  to  wonder  why 
her  mother  had  locked  her  door. 

"Where'd  you  lose  it?"  she  asked — meaning 
the  key. 

"That's  what  I  can't  tell,"  Olivia  answered,  so 
gayly  that  the  child  did  not  suspect  her  double 
meaning.  "Is  your  father  downstairs?" 

"No,  ma'am;  I  don't  know  where  he  is." 

"Well,  then,  listen,  Constance!  Mother  wants 
to  write  a  little  letter.  You  wait  there  a  minute 
and  she'll  throw  it  through  the  transom  to  you. 
Then  you  run  across  to  the  mail-box  with  it,  and 
come  hurrying  back." 

When  Constance  returned  her  mother  said: 
"Let's  play  a  lovely  game.  Pretend  I'm  a  most 
unhappy  queen,  and  some  bad  men  have  shut  me 
up  in  a  dungeon  cell,  and  you  are  the  little  prin- 
cess, my  daughter;  and  in  the  night,  when  the 

68 


"Nor  Ever  Any  More" 

castle  is  all  still,  you  come  stealing  along  the  dark 
corridors  to  find  where  they  have  put  me.  Pre- 
tend that  transom  is  the  only  window  in  my  cell, 
and  you  are  going  to  climb  through  it  to  sleep 
with  me.  Suppose  you  could?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Constance  answered  delight- 
edly, "but  I  could  try." 

"Be  careful  and  don't  fall." 

"No'm— I  won't." 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  chair  being  dragged 
to  the  other  side  of  the  door.  Then,  when  the 
utter  inadequacy  of  that  became  apparent  at  a 
glance,  there  were  departing  foot-falls,  and  silence 
for  several  minutes.  Resourceful  Constance  had 
remembered  the  little  three-step  ladder  her  mother 
used  when  hanging  pictures,  washing  transoms, 
and  doing  like  things.  Fortunately,  it  was  up- 
stairs, in  the  back  bedroom — over  the  kitchen — 
that  a  girl  would  have  occupied  if  they  had  kept 
one,  but  which  served  as  a  trunk-  and  store-  and 
sewing-room  instead. 

Running  nimbly  up  its  steps,  Constance  stood 
high  enough  to  look  easily  down  at  her  mother. 

Olivia  smiled  up  at  her.  "Now  to  get  you 
through!"  she  said.  But  that  was  not  difficult, 
with  Olivia  standing  on  a  chair  to  catch  her. 

Then  it  occurred  to  Olivia  that  they  must  try 
to  get  the  ladder  inside,  too — "lest  the  jailers  see 
it."  To  do  it,  she  had  to  push  her  bureau  side- 

69 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

wise  to  the  door  and,  standing  on  that,  reach  over, 
grasp  the  ladder,  and  drag  it  through.  All  of 
which  amused  Constance  delightfully. 

The  most  unhappy  queen  and  the  little  princess 
slept  in  each  other's  arms — or,  at  least,  the  little 
princess  slept,  and  the  queen  lay  very  still,  so  as 
not  to  disturb  her. 

"What'll  papa  think  when  he  comes  home?" 
the  princess  asked  drowsily,  as  she  was  drifting 
off  to  dreamland. 

"  Oh,  he  may  not  know.  He  often  comes  home 
after  we're  asleep,  you  know." 

At  dawn  Olivia  was  up  and  at  the  window, 
measuring  with  her  eye  the  distance  to  the  ground, 
and  computing  what  she  might  be  able  to  do  with 
the  little  ladder  toward  breaking  it.  Carefully 
she  let  it  down;  but  the  part  that  was  the  prop 
would  not  perform  its  duty,  and  the  foolish  thing 
that  might  have  helped  her  collapsed  and  lay  prone 
upon  the  ground. 

Olivia  dressed  herself,  then  waked  Constance. 

"Get  up,  little  princess,"  she  said,  "and  don't 
make  any  noise.  Let's  see  if  we  can't  get  out  of 
here  without  waking  up  father.  Think  how  he'd 
tease  us!" 

With  the  aid  of  a  sheet  she  easily  let  the  child 
down  into  the  yard.  Then,  throwing  down  her 
mattress  to  break  her  fall  in  case  her  own  support 
failed,  she  gashed  a  hole  in  one  corner  of  her  stout 

7° 


"Nor  Ever  Any  More" 

Marseilles  spread,  put  one  foot  of  her  bureau — 
still  barricading  the  door,  but  not  too  far  from 
the  window — through  the  hole,  and,  thus  anchored, 
let  herself  down  into  her  side  yard  and  freedom. 

Even  in  all  her  haste  and  agitation  she  looked 
back  at  the  flapping  spread,  sorry  she  could  not 
hide  the  evidence  of  her  escape.  But  she  reflected 
that  a  bedspread  hanging,  even  diagonally,  out 
of  a  bedroom  window  might  not  proclaim  to  the 
neighbors  the  shame  to  which  she  had  been  put. 
She  hid  the  mattress  in  the  shed  and  carried  the 
step-ladder  around  to  the  kitchen  door  where  it 
would  look  less  unusual.  Then,  seizing  Constance 
by  the  hand,  she  hurried  down  the  back  yard  and 
out  through  the  alley  gate. 

"Why,  Mamma!  where  are  we  going?"  Con- 
stance cried  in  astonishment. 

Olivia  burst  into  tears — for  the  first  time  in  all 
her  trouble.  "God  knows — I  don't!"  she  sobbed. 
And,  gripping  even  tighter  the  little  hand  she 
held,  she  broke  into  a  speed  that  was  almost  a 
run. 

The  new  day  was  but  faintly  dawned  yet,  and 
they  met  no  one  as  they  hurried  on. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    PRICE    THAT    WAS    PAID 

AT  twelve-thirty  an  angry-looking  man  came 
out  of  the  Governor's  office.  He  was 
Charlie  Bardeen's  employer,  and  he  had  been 
having  an  explosive  interview  with  his  State's 
chief  executive.  The  denial  of  that  plea  for  Fed- 
eral interference  had  cut  off  his  last  hope,  and  he 
was  beside  himself  with  rage — which  he  called 
indignation.  He  was  a  man  of  large  political 
power,  and  he  was  infuriated  to  find  that  when  he 
most  needed  that  power  to  serve  him  it  was  over- 
ruled and  set  at  naught. 

"You'll  never  hold  office  of  any  kind  in  this 
State  again — I  can  promise  you  that!"  he  cried. 
There  are  some  people  whose  present  impotence 
never  weakens  their  belief  in  how  strong  they  are 
going  to  be  to-morrow;  like  the  sniveling  little 
boys  they  used  to  be,  they  still  shake  their  fists 
at  their  retiring  victors  and  cry:  "You  just  wait!" 

Lyman  Innes's  present  feeling  was  that  he 
never  wanted  to  hold  office  in  this  or  any  other 
State  again,  but  he  did  not  say  so  to  his  irate 
caller.  There  was  another  "Never"  that  filled 

72 


The  Price  That  Was  Paid 

his  ears  so  that — to-day — they  were  deadened  to 
threats  of  other  loss.  "Nor  ever  any  more." 

In  the  hall  outside  the  Governor's  office  the 
angry  man,  departing,  fairly  bumped  into  an- 
other man  who  was  hovering  anxiously  about  the 
corridor. 

"What  the  — !"  began  the  angry  man.  Then 
he  recognized  the  other.  "Ah,  Bardeen!"  he  mut- 
tered. "Infernal  anarchist!"  he  jerked  out,  nod- 
ding his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  Governor's 
door. 

He  had  not  reached  the  nearest  exit  when  there 
was  a  shot — a  second's  awful  silence — then  an- 
other shot.  He  turned  back.  Men  were  rushing 
out  of  the  open  doorways  along  every  marble  cor- 
ridor. Ten  feet  outside  the  entrance  to  the  Gov- 
ernor's offices,  Lyman  Innes  lay  shot  through  the 
lungs.  Almost  across  his  feet  was  the  body  of 
Bardeen — quite  dead,  although  the  sound  of  his 
self-destroying  shot  had  scarcely  ceased  echoing, 
and  the  smoke  from  his  revolver  still  hung, 
wraith-like,  in  the  heavy  air. 

As  soon  as  Olivia  was  able  to  think  at  all,  she 
realized  that  she  had  very  little  money  and  no 
place  to  go.  Her  shabby  little  purse  contained 
less  than  four  dollars.  That  was  all  they  had  in 
the  world — she  and  Constance — except  the  few 
clothes  on  their  backs.  Her  first  impulse  was  to 

73 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

get  out  of  town,  to  hide  herself  where  she  was  not 
known.  But  when  she  reflected  how  little  money 
she  had  to  take  them,  and  to  keep  them  until  she 
could  get  work  to  do,  she  felt  that — for  Con- 
stance's sake — she  must  not  be  rash. 

She  had  a  brother  in  town — she  was  so  thank- 
ful, when  she  thought  of  her  people,  that  the  dear 
Mother  was  gone  where  this  that  had  happened 
to  Olivia  could  not  hurt  her — and  though  he  was 
much  younger  than  she,  and  probably  could  not 
help  her  much,  materially  or  with  counsel,  she 
decided  she  would  better  go  to  him. 

He  was  a  struggling  young  fellow  with  a  new 
little  wife,  and  a  new  little  baby,  and  a  new  little 
home.  Olivia  could  not  ask  him  for  much;  but 
a  shelter — until  she  had  time  to  think — he  could 
at  least  give  her. 

"I  have  had  to  leave  Charlie,"  she  told  him, 
when  she  had  roused  him  from  his  early  morning 
slumber.  "  Please  don't  ask  me  why,  or  anything 
about  it.  Only  let  me  come  in  for  a  little  while, 
and  if  he  asks  for  me  tell  him  I'm  not  here." 

"Why,  of  course!"  he  agreed.  But  Olivia 
could  feel  that  both  he  and  the  new  little  wife  were 
unable — however  willing — to  sympathize  at  all 
fully  with  a  woman  running  away  from  her  hus- 
band and  taking  with  her  their  only  child.  They 
were  thinking — she  as  well  as  he — that  if  it  were 
Nellie,  now,  who  had  taken  the  baby  and  gone 

74 


The  Price  That  Was  Paid 

to  Charlie  Bardeen,  they'd  hope  that  when  Walter 
came  looking  for  her,  Charlie  would  bring  him 
in,  and  call  Nellie,  and  tell  them  to  kiss  and  make 
up. 

Walter  promised  to  do  as  Olivia  asked.  But 
she  felt  that  he  was  not  incapable  of  promising 
with  mental  reservations  about  doing  what  he 
thought  was  for  her  good.  So  she  had  an  uneasy 
morning.  But  it  wore  away,  somehow,  and  Charlie 
did  not  come.  At  one  o'clock  Walter  came  home, 
white  and  shaking. 

"Charlie  Bardeen,"  he  managed  to  gasp,  "has 
shot  the  Governor." 

Olivia's  senses  reeled — she  swayed — and  Wal- 
ter caught  her  as  she  fell. 

When  she  came  out  of  her  swoon,  she  asked: 
"Is  he  dead?" 

And  thinking  she  meant  Charlie,  they  said: 
"Yes." 

Her  eyes  closed  and  they  thought  she  had 
fainted  again.  But  no  merciful  unconsciousness 
came  to  her.  Rather,  it  was  as  if  her  senses — 
electrified  by  the  shock — refused  to  spare  her  a 
single  crucifying  memory. 

Her  first  agony  was  of  loss.  The  world  seemed 
stark  to  her,  with  him  gone  out  of  it.  Then  she 
thought  of  the  sorrow  of  others — of  his  children — 
and  of  the  vengeful  rage  with  which  those  who 
loved  the  dead  man  would  turn  upon  his  de- 

75 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

stroyer.  What  would  Charlie  say  when  they  ques- 
tioned him  ?  In  one  horrible  instant  her  mind 
grasped  the  prospect  of  publicity — of  shame.  For 
herself  she  felt  she  did  not  care.  But  for  Con- 
stance! And  for  him — whose  fair  fame  would  go 
down  in  scandal  to  the  grave! 

So  intense  was  her  agony  of  suffering  that  it 
was  hours  before  Walter  dared  to  ask  her  what 
she  wanted  done  about  Charlie's  body. 

"Charlie's  body?"  she  repeated  dazedly. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "They  went  to  the  house  to 
notify  you  and  couldn't  find  you — of  course. 
There  is  much  mystery  about  your  disappearance. 
Don't  you  think  I'd  better  tell " 

"Is  Charlie  dead?"  she  asked. 

Then  they  were  sure — Walter  and  the  little 
new  wife — that  in  the  shock  of  her  sorrow  she 
had  gone  quite  mad. 

"Yes,  dear,"  they  said  gently,  but  as  if  they  did 
not  dare  hope  that  they  could  make  her  under- 
stand, "Charlie  is  dead.  He  was  crazed,  they  say, 
by  not  having  any  work — and  by  the  President's 
refusal  to  end  the  strike — and  he  shot  the  poor 
Governor — then  killed  himself." 

Keyed  as  she  was  to  the  prospect  of  disgrace 
compared  with  which  death  is  a  kindly  Providence, 
the  relief  this  brought  to  Olivia  was  so  great  that 
to  those  who  were  on-lookers  and  who  could  not 
understand,  she  seemed  more  than  ever  to  have 

76 


The  Price  That  Was  Paid 

gone  mad — not  raving  mad,  but  stricken,  as 
Ophelia  was. 

"Thank  God!"  she  murmured.  "Oh,  thank 
God!" 

They  gazed  at  her  aghast. 

"And  the— the  Governor  ?"  she  managed  at  last 
to  ask. 

"He  is  not  dead.     But  they  say  he  cannot  live." 

At  that  she  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  and  did 
not  speak  again. 

Walter  and  Nellie — poor,  frightened  children — 
taking  counsel  together,  decided  what  they  must 
do.  They  would  ignore  the  little  quarrel — what- 
ever it  was — that  had  brought  Olivia  to  their 
house  so  early  in  the  morning. 

"For,"  said  Nellie,  clutching  him  fearfully,  "if 
it  was  you  and  me  I  couldn't  bear  to  have  it 
known  that  our  last  words  were  unloving  ones 
and  I  had  left  you." 

So  they  agreed  that  they  would  give  out  word 
simply  that  Olivia  had  been  crazed  by  the  shock, 
and  that  they  would  take  charge  for  her  of  their 
brother-in-law's  burial. 

When  Olivia  realized  their  conclusion  she  had 
just  one  impulse:  to  take  advantage  of  it.  This 
would  give  her  the  only  possible  cover  under 
which  to  shield  from  unwitting  stabs  her  soul's 
raw  agony. 

77 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

She  let  them  bury  Charlie,  and  they  thought 
they  understood  when  she  said  she  did  not  want 
to  look  at  him. 

She  heard  them  talk  about  the  Governor's  con- 
dition; about  the  intense  feeling  the  assassination 
had  aroused  in  the  State  and  throughout  the 
country.  Unceasing  prayers  were  made  for  his 
recovery — but  there  was  little  hope. 

Finally,  after  a  lapse  of  time  wherein  she  had 
lost  count  of  nights  and  days,  she  heard  the  Capitol 
bell  tolled.  It  was  the  signal  to  the  people  that 
he  had  gone. 

There  was  never  such  a  funeral,  people  said, 
except  those  of  the  two  martyred  Presidents. 

The  papers  that  had  abused  him  most  were 
fullest  of  his  eulogy.  The  powers  that  had  op- 
posed him  were  silent — appeased,  perhaps,  by  the 
price  he  had  paid.  The  President,  shocked  and 
incensed,  gave  tribute  to  Lyman  Innes  as  one  of 
the  truest  Americans  the  nation  has  produced  to 
do  it  honor.  Hundreds  of  anecdotes  got  into 
print  and  into  conversation  about  his  steadfast- 
ness in  the  behalf  of  liberty,  of  justice. 

As  always,  the  assassin's  hand  served  but  to 
bring  out,  to  people's  softened  judgment,  all  that 
was  good  in  the  victim,  and  to  blur  their  remem- 
brance of  all  in  him  that  might  have  been  weak 
or  unworthy. 

78 


The  Price  That  Was  Paid 

Thus  fell  the  curtain  on  the  life  of  Lyman 
Innes.  There  was  some  wild  talk  of  Bardeen's 
having  been  hired  to  remove  the  Governor;  but 
that  soon  died.  The  deed  went  on  record  as  a 
madman's  deed.  And  in  the  shock  that  followed 
upon  it,  certain  defenses  fell,  down;  peace  came 
at  last,  and  as  he  would  have  wished  it.  In  the 
sorrow  his  death  caused,  the  strike  was  won. 

Olivia  never  went  back  to  the  gray  cottage. 
Walter  and  Nellie  took  charge  of  it  for  her,  sold 
out  all  it  contained — except  a  few  of  her  personal 
effects,  and  Constance's — and  sent  the  pittance 
the  sale  brought  to  Olivia  in  a  city  where,  under 
another  name,  she  and  Constance  were  trying  to 
face  life  anew. 


79 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  VI 

FIFTEEN    YEARS    LATER 

ROSE  was  smiling  whimsically  at  herself  as 
she  stood  in  the  half-lighted  hall  fumbling 
in  her  purse  to  find  her  latch-key. 

The  moment  she  had  let  herself  into  the  apart- 
ment she  heard  the  clatter  of  china  in  the  dining- 
room. 

"Oh,  I'm  late  again!"  she  cried — and  went 
straight  in  there  without  waiting  even  to  take  off 
her  hat. 

Johnny  was  at  the  table  eating. 

"No,"  he  said  good-humoredly,  "it  is  only  I 
who  am  early — as  usual.  Have  to  be!" 

Davy  was  sitting  in  the  baywindow  reading  by 
the  fading  daylight. 

"It  doesn't  seem,"  he  said,  only  half-looking 
up  from  his  book,  "as  if  this  family  would  ever 
arrive  at  the  luxury  of  a  dinner  hour  that  every- 
body can  keep." 

Johnny  winked  one  black  eye  wickedly  at  Rose. 

"'Do  you  know,"  he  observed,  with  mock  grav- 
ity, "that  being  a  literary  editor  is  like  to  make 
our  Davy  a  snob?  'Member  the  hours  we  used 

83 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

to  keep  when  he  was  a  mere  reporter  on  the 
Clarion  ?  " 

Davy  smiled  over  his  book,  but  said  nothing. 

"Well,"  Rose  admitted,  "I  don't  suppose  it 
would  be  possible  to  have  a  dinner  hour  that 
would  suit  me.  The  only  time  I  ever  face  dinner 
hour  without  protest,  I  believe,  is  down  South, 
where  they  dine  sensibly  at  two  or  three  o'clock. 
There  isn't  much  else  than  dine  that  anybody 
cares  to  do  at  two  o'clock.  But  at  half-past  five 
or  six,  or  seven!  It's  just  impossible  for  me  to 
get  home  then." 

"Cars  stuck?"  asked  Davy. 

Rose  laughed.  "I  wasn't  on  any  car,"  she 
said.  "I  was  loitering  along  on  Shanks'  mare. 
If  there  could  only  be  a  prize  for  loitering,"  she 
called  out  from  her  room  adjoining,  where  she 
had  gone  to  remove  her  hat  and  coat,  "there 
couldn't  any  messenger  boy  or  Broadway  car  beat 
me  to  it!  Country  or  city,  this  's  the  time  o'  day 
for  it,  too.  Guess  what  I  saw!"  she  demanded, 
re-emerging. 

Davy  looked  up  interestedly — Johnny  was  al- 
ways eager  to  be  interested. 

"What?"  they  both  said.  Rose  was  always 
coming  in  with  a  tale  of  adventure  that  they  both 
loved  to  hear. 

"I  was  coming  through  Tenth  Street,  from 
Sixth  Avenue,"  she  began. 


Fifteen  Years  Later 

Johnny  grinned.  "  Discharged,  or  out  on  bail  ? " 
he  asked.  The  Jefferson  Market  Police  Court  is 
at  Sixth  Avenue  and  Tenth  Street. 

"  Bail,"  Rose  answered  promptly,  and  went  on. 
"  There  was  a  man  going  up  the  avenue  leading 
a  small,  ornery-looking,  real  live  bear.  The  bear 
belonged  to  your  profession,  Johnny,  and  he  had 
a  sign  on  inviting  people  to  come  and  see  him  to- 
night at  the  Royal  Theatre  for  five  cents.'* 

"Idea  for  you,  Johnny,"  Davy  murmured. 

"Don't  like  to  be  led,"  Johnny  objected. 

"It's  the  best  thing  you  do!"  Davy  remarked. 

"There  was  a  beautiful  crowd,"  Rose  hastened 
to  interpose.  "Women  out  on  supper-buying 
errands,  and  young  folks  on  their  way  home  from 
sweatshops  and  factories,  and  a  contingent  from 
the  court — hangers-on  and  potential  prisoners — 
and  millions  of  children.  That  old  tribal  patri- 
arch who  keeps  the  little  clothing  store  was  in  his 
doorway  among  his  flapping  bargains,  peering 
intently  through  his  thick  glasses;  and  a  dago 
who  was  selling  cheap  oranges  from  a  wagon  by 
the  curb  flashed  his  white  teeth  in  delighted 
grins.  I  was  moving  along  in  the  crowd,  loving  it 
all,  when  I  happened  to  look  up  suddenly — and 
across  the  street.  On  the  opposite  curb,  looking 
more  entirely  absorbed  than  anybody  else  in  the 
crowd,  was  a  shy  little  man,  almost  shabby-look- 
ing; if  any  one  had  noticed  him — which  no  one 

85 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

did — he  would  have  passed  for  a  seedy  accountant 
who  had  spent  his  uneventful  life  hunched  over 
the  dreary  ledgers  of  some  pelt  exporters,  or  the 
like.  I  think  he  had  been  going  through  Tenth 
Street — to  Cecchina's,  probably,  or  to  call  on  some 
one  in  the  Studio  Building — but  he  forgot  it. 
For  when  I  lost  sight  of  the  crowd,  going  up  the 
avenue,  he  was  engulfed  in  it " 

"Getting  material  for  a  new  story,"  said  Davy, 
who  had  easily  guessed  the  little  rn^n's  identity. 

"No,"  corrected  Rose,  "I  don't  think  he  was — 
not  consciously,  I  mean.  He  was  just  following 
the  bear,  and  the  crowd,  because  it  appealed  to 
the  eternal  boy-heart  in  him.  He  couldn't  write 
the  things  he  does  if  he  went  about  looking  for 
'copy.'  Do  you  think  he  could  ?  He  loves  life — 
for  its  own  sake — quite  instinctively — and  it  ex- 
presses itself  through  him — or  so  it  seems  to  me." 

"He's  a  wonder  —  that  mah!"  pronounced 
Johnny. 

Rose  nodded.  "I  know — it  made  me  feel  'all 
thrill-y'  inside.  Nobody  guessed  who  he  was — 
nobody  there  had  even  heard  of  him,  perhaps. 
And  yet  how  much  they  all  owe  him!  I  couldn't 
help  thinking:  that  shambling  bear  may  go  down 
into  the  tenderest  immortality!  Maybe,  when  I'm 
'an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady'  and  write  my  memoirs, 
I  shall  tell  about  this  late  October  evening,  and 
my  homeward  walk,  and  how  I  happened  to  see 

86 


Fifteen  Years  Later 

Ansel  Rodman  when  he  caught  his  first  sight  of 
Bruin;  and  everybody  who  reads  will  sigh  envi- 
ously and  say:  'Dear  me!  just  think  of  that!" 

The  boys  laughed,  and  recalled  Rose  to  this 
present. 

"A  minute  more,  there/'  Johnny  teased,  "and 
you'd  have  been  asking  for  'my  specs,  so's  I  can 
read  my  royalty  reports.  I  am  so  glad  I  was  a 
thrifty  young  woman  and  began  early  to  save  up 
for  my  memoirs.  Banks  sometimes  fail,  my  chil- 
dren, dear — but  memoirs  keep  getting  richer — like 
brandied  peaches — every  year  you  have  'em!'  " 

Johnny's  tonal  and  facial  imitations  of  the 
reminiscent  old  lady  were  irresistibly  comical. 
Born  mimic  that  he  was,  he  could  draw  in  the 
corners  of  his  laughing  young  mouth  to  simulate 
old  age  from  whose  shrunken  gums  the  plate  of 
false  teeth  was  continually  dropping  to  interfere 
with  speech;  could  veil  the  lights  dancing  in  his 
eyes  and  take  on  the  peering  look  of  age  when 
hunting  spectacles.  And  the  quaver  in  his  voice, 
the  unctuousness  of  manner  he  put  on,  made  Rose 
and  Davy  laugh  until  the  tears  rolled  down  their 
cheeks. 

"That's  one  o*  the  things,"  Johnny  went  on, 
resuming  his  own  serio-comic  character,  "that 
keeps  me  from  saving.  I  know  that  when  I'm 
a  decrepit  gent,  Rose  '11  take  care  of  me  with  her 
memoirs." 

8? 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"Oh,  but  consider!"  Rose  implored  him. 
"You  may  have  years  of  decrepitude  before  I'm 
old  enough  to  publish  memoirs.  Or  I  may  die 
under  auto  or  trolley  wheels  before  I'm  old 
enough  to  write  them.  Or,  fifty  years  from  now, 
the  people  of  to-day  who  interest  me  so  may  not 
be  the  ones  that  generation  will  want  to  hear 
about.  It's  as  speculative  as  frenzied  finance — 
collecting  memories!  You  haven't  the  least  way 
of  knowing  what'll  be  precious — to  other  people 
— in  fifty  years." 

"I've  a  *  trade  last'  for  you!"  cried  Davy,  joy- 
ously. 

"Give  it  to  me,"  Rose  pleaded. 

"I  said  a  'trade  last,'  "  Davy  reminded  her. 

Rose  looked  appealingly  at  Johnny.  "Tell  me 
something  nice  about  Davy,"  she  begged. 

"Can't — truthfully,"  Johnny  teased. 

"When  were  you  ever  left  speechless  before,  for 
lack  of  truth  ? "  retaliated  Davy. 

Johnny  grinned.  "But  this  time,  even  my  usu- 
ally vivid  imagination  fails  me." 

"Never  mind,  Davy,"  Rose  consoled,  "I  re- 
member one  I  had,  from  a  more  discriminating 
quarter.  Mrs.  Bristow  said " 

"When  did  you  see  Mrs.  Bristow?"  Johnny 
interrupted. 

"This  afternoon — I've  just  come  from  there. 
Mrs.  Bristow  said  she  thought  Davy  was  one  of 

88 


Fifteen  Years  Later 

the  most  admirable  young  men  she  had  ever  met. 


Davy  winced.  "I'm  tired  of  being  *  admira- 
ble,' "  he  said. 

"Why,  Davy!"  Johnny  expostulated;  then 
added  virtuously,  "I'm  not!" 

"You  haven't  begun!"  Davy  retorted. 

"Truth!  Bitter  truth!"  Johnny  admitted.  But 
he  did  not  seem  downcast. 

"Davy,"  said  Rose,  "/  think  you're  the  very 
divil  for  irresistibleness.  Now  do  I  get  my  trade  ?  " 

"You  do!  Oswald  Seever  and  I  were  talking 
the  other  day  about  the  prospects  of  some  people 
we  know,  and  somehow  a  little  joke  suggested 
itself  about  your  memoirs.  'That's  all  right,' 
Oswald  said,  *I  tell  you  I  believe  in  those  mem- 
oirs with  all  my  heart.  Sometimes,  when  I  get 
to  thinking  about  them,  I  can  just  see  how  all  of 
us  in  whom  Rose  has  expressed  belief,  will  have 
to  hustle  and  make  good  for  her  sake.  I  had  the 
doleful  dumps  a  while  ago,  and  was  going  to  burn 
up  a  lot  of  stuff  and  quit  trying  (kind  of  Kip- 
ling —  waste-basket  —  Recessional  Ode  —  feeling). 
And  then  I  had  a  vision  of  Rose  —  forty  years  from 
now  —  sorting  over  her  memories  and  dropping 
all  those  that  concerned  me  in  the  discard.  And 
I  could  hear  her  say  to  herself:  "Queer  thing 
about  Oswald!  I  always  thought  —  "  And  I 
lighted  my  pipe  instead  of  my  pyre.  Conse- 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

quence!  I  sold  two  of  those  things  within  ten 
days — and  to  better  magazines  than  any  that  'd 
turned  'em  so  contumeliously  down!" 

"There!"  cried  Rose  delightedly.  "Even  if 
nothing  more  comes  of  my  memoirs,  I'm  sure 
they're  justified.  And  I  shall  never — or  almost 
never — question  the  place  of  a  Mere  Person  among 
the  Olympians  henceforth." 

She  and  Davy  had  joined  Johnny  at  dinner, 
but  Johnny  was  what  he  called  "one  lap  ahead 
and  going  like  the  wind." 

"Tell  about  the  Bristows  before  I  have  to 
leave,"  he  implored,  starting  on  his  dessert. 

"Well,"  Rose  began,  "I  went  up  there  this 
afternoon.  Emily  and  her  mother  were  both  at 
home,  and  I  had  the  pleasantest  kind  of  a  call. 
Mrs.  Bristow  is  a  charming  woman " 

"I  thought  you'd  like  her,"  Johnny  said. 

"I  asked  them  to  come  down  Sunday  evening 
and  share  our  bowl  of  salad,"  Rose  went  on. 
"And  at  first  Mrs.  Bristow  seemed  to  hesitate 
— said  she  almost  never  went  anywhere;  but 
after  awhile  she  said  she'd  come — that  they'd  be 
most  happy  to  come." 

"I  don't  believe  they  know  many  people  in 
New  York,"  Davy  remarked. 

"They  don't,"  said  Johnny.  "Emily  told  me 
so.  Well!  I'm  off.  See  you  later." 

"Much  later?"  asked  Rose  teasingly. 
90 


Fifteen  Years  Later 

"Never  can  tell — I'm  not  a  prophet,"  Johnny 
answered.  Then  the  hall  door  closed,  and  they 
could  hear  him  whistling  as  he  ran  down  the 
stairs. 

"I  don't  suppose,"  observed  Davy  a  little 
gravely,  after  a  brief  pause,  "that  there  is  any  one 
else  on  earth  quite  so  continuously  happy  as 
Johnny  is." 

Rose  looked  up  quickly  and  caught  the  gleam 
of  wistfulness  in  Davy's  eyes. 

"Oh,  yes  there  is,  Davy  dear,"  she  corrected 
gently.  "Happiness  comes  easily — instinctively — 
to  Johnny.  But  you  ought  to  know  that  people 
don't  always  enjoy  most  what  comes  easiest." 

"  I  said  *  continuously  happy,'  "  objected  Davy 
argumentatively. 

"Well — even  at  that!  Didn't  you  once  get  ter- 
ribly tired  of  perpetual  sunshine?" 

"I  did." 

"But  you  doubt  if  Johnny  does  ?" 

"Johnny  isn't  moody." 

"That's  the  reason  he  won't  go  as  far  as  you 
will." 

"Maybe  not.  But  he'll  have  a  lot  better  time 
going  a  little  way." 

"Why,  Davy!  You've  got  the  sure-enough 
dumps  to-night.  Has  anything  gone  wrong  ? " 

"Nothing  unusual.  Only  I  had  a  bully  good 
offer  to-day  and  I  turned  it  down." 

91 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"What  for?" 

"Well — it  was  an  offer — a  suggestion,  rather — 
to  write  a  series  of  articles — later  to  become  a 
book — on  the  history  of  labor  struggles  in  Amer- 
ica." 

"Oh,  Davy!" 

"I  knew  you'd  say  'Oh,  Davy!'  I  could  hear 
you,  in  my  mind's  ear,  when  I  was  saying  no." 

"Why  did  you  feel  you  had  to  say  it?" 

Davy  hesitated.  "For  a  good  many  reasons," 
he  began,  as  if  with  effort,  "but  principally  on 
account  of  father." 

Rose  looked  as  if  she  could  not  understand. 
"Why  on  account  of  father?" 

Davy  was  gazing  out  the  window,  presumably 
over  the  little,  oblique  section  of  Washington 
Square  they  could  see  from  their  dining-room, 
but  evidently  following  the  trail  of  long,  long 
thoughts. 

"It  would  hardly  be  possible,"  he  answered, 
without  withdrawing  his  gaze,  "for  me;  the  big- 
gest struggle  of  them  all,  perhaps,  was  that  of 
which  he  was  the  central  figure — which  his  death 
terminated — I  couldn't — in  delicacy " 

"I  see,"  she  said  softly.  "I  wonder  they  didn't 
think  of  that  before  offering  it  to  you." 

"I  wondered — too — "  he  murmured. 

The  rest  of  their  meal  was  eaten  in  silence — 
preoccupied  on  his  part,  sympathetic  on  hers. 

92 


Fifteen  Years  Later 

"We'll  have  our  coffee  in  the  living-room,"  she 
told  the  servant,  thinking  that  perhaps  the  change 
of  place  would  serve  to  break  the  train  of  Davy's 
sad  reflections. 

He  recognized  her  little  endeavor  and  tried  to 
reward  it.  But  she  could  see  that  something  had 
rudely  touched  him  to-day  in  that  exquisite  sen- 
sitiveness that  was  his  about  his  father.  And  it 
was  characteristic  of  him,  too,  to  keep  silent  about 
it  before  Johnny. 

After  a  decent  amount  of  preliminary  pretense, 
so  that  her  request  might  not  seem  too  obvious, 
she  asked: 

"Davy,  don't  you  want  to  go  out  and  find  the 
Royal  Theatre — wherever  it  is — and  see  if  Ansel 
Rodman  isn't  there?" 

Davy  smiled.  "  Indefatigable  collector  of  things 
to  remember!  Yes — of  course  I  want  to.  Get 
your  hat." 

They  retraced  her  steps  of  an  hour  ago,  through 
Tenth  Street  to  Sixth  Avenue. 

"Did  the  bear,"  asked  Davy,  when  they  reached 
the  corner,  "  look  as  if  he  were  going  or  coming — 
to  the  Royal  Theatre  or  from  the  Royal  Theatre  ? " 

Rose  reflected.  "I  think  he  looked  as  if  he 
were  coming,"  she  said. 

"Very  well.  Then  we'll  go  south.  Query: 
How  far  afield  from  the  Royal  Theatre  would  a 
shrewd  bear  go  in  quest  of  a  probable  audience  ?" 

93 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"I  don't  know  that  he  was  a  shrewd  bear." 

"If  he  was  connected  with  a  five-cent  theatre, 
he  probably  was." 

"My  notion  of  a  shrewd  thing  for  us  to  do," 
Rose  ventured,  "would  be  to  ask  a  policeman — 
several  policemen!" 

Accordingly  they  crossed  the  avenue  and  went 
into  Jefferson  Market  Court.  The  day  session  of 
the  Municipal  Court  was  over  hours  ago,  and 
the  first  session  of  the  Night  Court  had  not  be- 
gun; so  the  court- room  was  empty,  except  for  a 
clerk  who  was  immersed  in  records  behind  the 
railing. 

Davy  was  familiar  with  the  place;  he  had  put 
in  a  good  deal  of  time  here  in  the  days  of  his 
newspaper  apprenticeship.  He  stepped  around  to 
the  desk  where  the  patrolmen  report.  The  night 
shift  was  just  coming  on  duty. 

"Has  anybody  here  seen — the  Royal  Theatre  ?" 
he  asked. 

"Oh,  easy!"  they  told  him,  and  gave  him  the 
directions. 

The  Royal  was  of  the  ordinary  sort  of  five-cent 
theatres — a  converted  store  with  the  minimum  of 
ventilation  and  the  maximum  of  danger  if  there 
should  be  a  panic  or  a  fire  from  exploding  cellu- 
loid film. 

Davy  and  Rose  were  early.  The  first  show  did 
not  begin  till  seven-thirty. 

94 


Fifteen  Years  Later 

Ansel  Rodman  was  not  there;  neither  was  the 
bear.  At  least,  the  latter  was  not  in  such  evidence 
as  might  have  been  expected,  beside  the  ticket 
booth. 

Rose  began  to  feel  sympathetic.  "I  wonder  if 
he's  walking  yet — poor  bear! — trying  to  drum  up 
an  audience,"  she  said.  "He'll  be  too  tired  to  do 
justice  to  his  act." 

"And  Rodman!"  Davy  reminded  her.  "Can 
it  be  that  he's  still  walking,  too?" 

Rose  thought  it  more  likely  that  Rodman  was 
dining  somewhere  "in  the  lower  red-ink  belt" — 
meaning  among  the  foreign  tables  d'hote  south 
of  Union  Square. 

Her  surmise  was  probably  correct,  for  before 
the  show  started  Rodman  came  in.  He  did  not 
see  them,  but  went  farther  front  to  a  seat. 

The  entertainment  was  of  the  usual  order. 
There  was  a  film  that  unrolled  the  story — in 
pictures,  liberally  helped  out  by  explanatory  print 
— of  a  jailer's  daughter  who  was  rescued  by  a 
duke  from  the  robber  band  that  held  her  captive. 
When  the  duke's  turn  at  captivity  came — he  was 
made  prisoner  by  Louis  XI — the  jailer's  daughter 
helped  him  to  escape,  and  gave  her  own  life  for 
his  in  the  pursuit  that  followed.  It  was  a  good 
film — as  films  go — and  had  quite  as  much  veri- 
similitude as  some  popular  historical  novels. 
Louis  XI,  and  the  duke,  and  the  jailer's  daughter 

95 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

looked — to  the  hypercritical  eye — remarkably  like 
New  York  East-Siders  at  a  masquerade;  but 
here,  also,  the  popular  historical  fiction — or  much 
of  it — enjoyed  no  obvious  advantage.  "You  say 
'methinks'  too  much,"  Tommy  of  the  lively  sen- 
timent complained  to  Corp.  "I  can't  play  I'm 
the  Pretender  unless  I  say  'methinks,'  '  was 
Corp's  defence.  Doubtless  Barrie  intended  us  to 
expect  that  Corp  would  evolve  naturally  into  a 
writer  of  Jacobean  romance. 

After  the  jailer's  daughter  had  died  and,  as 
Davy  commented,  the  enormous  risks  and  fatal 
outcome  of  gratitude  had  been  made  quite  clear, 
there  was  a  lively  popular  song  sung  by  a  young 
man  with  no  discoverable  excuse  for  trying  to  sing 
except  abundant  lung  power,  of  which  the  girl 
at  the  piano  was  probably  jealous,  for  she  did  her 
best  to  drown  him  out,  and  almost  succeeded. 
Then  came  a  film  of  the  inevitable  sort:  some  one 
running  away  from  some  one  else,  and  in  the 
course  of  the  mad  chase,  apple-carts  are  over- 
turned, painters'  ladders  knocked  from  under 
them  and  their  cans  of  paint  spilled,  sacks  of 
flour  are  butted  into,  and  so  on.  There  was  no 
grossness  in  this  film,  and  it  had  been  inimitably 
acted— in  France — so  that  the  pantomime  made 
it  excruciatingly  funny.  Everybody  in  the  thea- 
tre— which  was  packed — laughed  until  he  cried. 
It  was  good  to  make  people  laugh  that  way — 

96 


Fifteen  Years  Later 

many  kinds  of  people  drifted  together  in  here 
after  many  kinds  of  experiences,  and  presently 
to  drift  out  again  to  meet  many  workaday  de- 
mands. There  was  something  in  the  sheer  folly 
of  the  situations  depicted  that  appealed  to  all 
ages  and  to  all  grades  of  understanding.  The  shrill 
glee  of  little  children  rose  as  an  antiphonal  above 
the  bass  rumble  of  men's  mirth  and  the  treble 
laughter  of  women  and  girls.  Beside  Ansel  Rod- 
man sat  a  hugely  fat  German  of  middle  age, 
whose  merriment  was  almost  volcanic.  Once,  in 
a  particularly  frenzied  burst,  he  slapped  Rodman 
a  mighty  slap  upon  the  knee.  "Ach,  Gott!"  he 
cried,  like  one  imploring  a  respite.  And  Ansel 
Rodman,  wiping  the  tears  from  his  own  eyes, 
loved  the  splendid  democracy  of  that  resounding 
thwack;  the  German  had  not  looked  to  see  whom 
he  slapped — nor  cared  to  know.  For  was  it  not 
another  human  being  blown  by  the  same  gale 
of  laughter  ? 

A  girl  sang  a  banal  sentimental  song,  mawkish 
in  matter  and  set  to  music  without  merit.  She 
sang  it  atrociously,  and  did  a  few  kicking  steps 
between  the  verses.  Most  of  the  audience  received 
her  indifferent  efforts  with  stolidity. 

Then  came  Bruin's  turn.  There  was  a  film 
depicting  the  "Far  West"  and  the  adventures  of  a 
hunter  who  went  through  perils  and  adventures 
that  would  put  any  arctic  explorer  to  the  blush. 

97 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

Out  of  most  of  these  perils  he  could  never  have 
escaped  had  it  not  been  for  the  super-intelligent 
aid  of  a  small  black  bear.  When  at  last  he  was 
able  to  get  back  to  civilization,  the  bear  refused  to 
be  left  behind.  So  the  hunter  took  Bruin  back 
with  him,  to  be  a  member  of  his  family.  But 
Mrs.  Hunter  was  sub-intelligent  and  had  no  sense 
of  bears  as  household  guests.  Therefore  Mr. 
Hunter  gave  her  all  the  gold  he  had  brought  with 
him  from  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  left  home  to 
lead  a  life  rich  in  affection  with  Bruin  by  his  side. 
After  the  film  was  finished,  the  lights  flashed  up, 
and  there  on  the  stage  sat  Mr.  Hunter — or  a 
very  fair  replica  of  him — and  Bruin.  And  when 
they  were  cheered  by  the  audience  they  rose,  and 
Mr.  Hunter  handed  Bruin  a  red  bandana  hand- 
kerchief in  which  was  bundled  all  their  worldly 
goods.  With  this  hanging  on  the  end  of  a  stick, 
over  his  shoulder,  Bruin  marched  off  beside  his 
master,  to  the  soul-stirring  accompaniment  of  vocif- 
erous applause  and  one  of  the  piano  lady's  mus- 
cular renditions. 

Lingering  as  much  as  they  dared  in  the  face  of 
the  order,  "All  out,  please!"  Davy  and  Rose 
waited  for  Mr.  Rodman  to  come  up  with  them. 
Talking  with  him  as  he  came  was  a  man  with 
whom  he  had  evidently  just  fallen  into  conversa- 
tion. This  man  was  most  striking-looking.  He 
was  of  medium  height  and  sinewy  build.  His 


Fifteen  Years  Later 

lean,  clean-shaven  face  was  almost  lantern-jawed 
and  very  colorless.  His  dark  hair  was  abundant 
and  unkempt.  His  eyes  proclaimed  him,  at  once, 
the  constant  companion  of  the  invisible;  unmis- 
takably, he  was  a  fanatic  of  some  sort.  What- 
ever it  was  that  he  had  said  to  Ansel  Rodman,  it 
had  interested  him  instantly.  Before  the  two 
men  came  abreast  of  Rose  and  Davy,  they  looked 
so  mutually  absorbed  that  Rose  tugged  at  Davy's 
sleeve. 

"Let  us  go,"  she  said;  " don't  interrupt  them." 
She  had  a  horror  of  breaking  in  upon  any  con- 
versation that  might  be  satisfying — of  scattering 
with  the  trivialties  of  greeting  and  introductions, 
thought  that  was  wistful  to  be  expressed. 

Davy  would  have  yielded  to  her  entreaty,  but 
just  then  there  was  a  commotion  behind  the 
scenes.  Bruin,  feeling  "temperamental,"  proba- 
bly, had  broken  from  restraint  and  was  returning 
to  the  footlights,  his  absence  from  which  he  doubt- 
less considered  too  prolonged  for  the  public's 
pleasure,  as  for  his  own. 

He  was  so  comically  human  in  his  evident 
greed  for  the  spotlight  and  for  applause  that  Rose 
broke  into  hearty  laughter.  Rodman's  attention, 
withdrawn  from  his  chance  acquaintance,  passed 
from  Bruin  to  Rose,  and  he  greeted  her  delightedly. 

He  was  one  of  the  men  of  influence  and  estab- 
lished reputation  to  whom  Davy  had  brought 

99 


Children  of  ToMorrow 

letters  when  he  descended — a  raw  young  college 
graduate — upon  New  York  with  literary  aspira- 
tions. Rodman's  helping  hand  had  gone  out  to 
him  instantly,  as  it  did  to  every  youth  who  came 
to  him  asking  the  aid  of  his  experience  over  the 
road  he  had  travelled.  And  the  little  household, 
that  numbered  just  the  three  children  whose 
father  had  been  taken  from  them  by  murder,  and 
their  mother,  a  few  years  later,  by  uncontrollable 
grief,  appealed  so  strongly  to  this  strangely  de- 
tached man  that  his  friendship  with  it  was  one 
of  the  most  intimate  he  enjoyed.  He  had  never 
married;  he  led  what  most  people  called  a  lonely 
life.  Whereat  he  always  smiled  whimsically, 
for  he  knew  that  he  had  more  avenues  of  escape 
from  self  than  most  people  have  ever  dreamed  of. 
In  fact,  there  was  hardly  any  way  Ansel  Rodman 
could  turn  and  not  find  himself  interested.  No 
man  had  ever  been  more  exquisitely  designed  for 
the  interpretation  of  human  nature.  For  his  per- 
sonality was  so  unobtrusive  that  he  could  slip  in 
anywhere,  and  become  absorbed,  without  making 
anybody  conscious  of  his  presence. 

When  he  spoke  to  Rose  and  Davy,  the  stranger 
would  have  moved  on;  but  Rodman  restrained  him. 

"Don't  go,"  he  said — "that  is,  unless  you 
must.  I'd  like  to  hear  more  of  your  ideas.  Ah ! 
that  is  good!"  he  exclaimed,  when  the  stranger 
tacitly  yielded.  "Let  us  talk  as  we  go  along." 

100 


Fifteen  Years  Later 

By  his  assumption  of  common  willingness  he 
made  a  little  group  of  four.  No  introductions 
seemed  to  him  to  be  necessary.  He  was  not  in- 
terested to  know  the  stranger's  name.  What  did 
names  matter  ?  Nor  did  it  ever  occur  to  him 
that  the  stranger  might  be  interested  to  know  his. 

So  they  moved  on  and  out,  these  four — com- 
monly interested  in  life,  and  therefore  mutually 
interested  in  one  another. 


101 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    MARIONETTES 

"fT^HIS    gentleman,"    began    Ansel    Rodmanr 

J_     when  they  had  got  outside,  "has  just  made 

some  exceedingly  interesting  observations  to  me.. 

I  am  sure  you  would  like  him  to  go  on  with  them." 

"Oh,  if  he  will,  please!"  said  Rose. 

But  the  stranger  seemed  embarrassed,  made 
suddenly  self-conscious. 

"I — why,  it  is  nothing,"  he  murmured. 

Ansel  Rodman  understood.  "Were  you  going, 
in  any  direction  particularly?'*  he  asked. 

"I  had  thought  I  would  go  south,"  the  stranger 
answered.  "But  it  does  not  matter " 

"I  was  about  to  suggest  wandering  that  way,"" 
Rodman  hastened  to  assure  him. 

Rose  began  to  be  sorry  about  the  foolish  little 
episode  of  Bruin  which  had  evidently  broken  up 
what  was  in  a  fair  way  to  be  a. valuable  conversa- 
tion. 

"I  believe,"  she  confided  to  Davy,  when  they 
had  dropped  a  pace  or  two  behind,  the  more 
easily  to  thread  their  way  along  the  narrow  and 
crowded  sidewalks,  "that  they'd  be  glad,  any  min- 
ute, to  look  back  and  realize  that  we  were  lost." 

102 


The  Marionettes 

They  were  about  to  carry  this  benevolent  plan 
into  execution  when  they  reached  Fourth  Street. 
But  there  they  again  were  frustrated.  Rodman 
and  his  new  acquaintance  halted  at  the  corner  and 
turning  around  to  Rose  and  Davy,  his  face  alight 
with  pleasant  purpose,  Rodman  shouted  above 
the  rumble  of  traffic  and  the  babel  of  street  sounds: 

"We're  bound  for  the  Spring  Street  marion- 
ettes. Come  on!" 

Instead  of  crossing,  he  and  his  companion 
turned  east  in  Fourth  Street  and  followed  it — 
along  the  southern  boundary  of  Washington 
Square,  over  to  Broadway,  and  on,  to  the  Bowery. 

In  the  quieter  stretches  of  their  walk,  the 
Inneses  caught  fragments  of  the  conversation 
that  had  evidently  resumed  its  full  strength  of 
interest  between  Rodman  and  the  stranger. 

"I'm  delighted,"  they  heard  Rodman  say,  "that 
I  can  put  you  in  the  way  of  becoming  acquainted 
with  these  people  and  their  show.  It  seems  to 
me  that  here  are  nearly  all  the  elements  of  your 
dream." 

"I  wonder,"  the  stranger  said,  "why  I  never 
found  them  in  my  prowling." 

"You  won't  wonder,"  Rodman  told  him,  "when 
you  have  seen  the  place.  You  might  prowl  the 
East  Side  streets  for  years,  and  neither  hear  of 
this  place  nor  notice  it  if  you  passed  it  by." 

This  proved  true  enough.  On  the  south  side 
103 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

of  Spring  Street,  a  little  west  of  the  Bowery,  they 
stopped  before  an  old  dwelling  house.  Ascending 
three  or  four  front  steps,  they  entered  a  front 
room  rudely  partitioned  off  with  boards.  A  glass 
lamp  in  an  iron  socket  lighted  this  place,  which 
corresponded  to  the  lobby  of  a  theatre.  In  a 
cubby  behind  the  boards,  a  fat  Italian  woman 
sat  at  the  seat  of  custom.  Beside  the  ticket  win- 
dow was  the  opening  through  which  those  who 
had  paid  the  price  passed  into  the  theatre. 

The  old  house  was  a  deep  one,  extending  well 
back  toward  the  limits  of  its  lot.  Probably  four 
rooms  had  been  thrown  together  by  the  knocking 
out  of  walls,  giving  an  auditorium  about  forty 
feet  in  length,  but  narrow — seemingly  not  more 
than  eighteen  feet  wide. 

The  back  of  the  auditorium  had  tiers  of  rude 
benches,  rising  to  the  ceiling,  against  the  wood 
partition  and  above  the  ticket-seller's  cubby;  five 
cents  admitted  one  to  these  seats.  Below  them,  a 
dozen  rows  of  chairs  afforded  seats  at  ten  cents 
each.  Nearest  the  stage  were  a  few  rows — not 
more  than  four  or  five — where  the  price  was 
fifteen  cents.  The  only  seats  unsold  when  Rod- 
man applied  at  the  box  office  were  in  the  front 
rows. 

The  air  seemed  nearly  impenetrable  at  first. 
It  was  a  dense  haze  of  tobacco  smoke  in  which 
hung,  heavily,  an  assortment  of  evil  odors  includ- 

104 


The  Marionettes 

ing  garlic — much  garlic — and  personal  unclean- 
ness  and  mustiness  of  incredibly  long  standing; 
probably  not  in  years  had  one  good  whiff  of  fresh 
air  blown  through  this  place.  Certainly  not  in 
years,  one  would  have  sworn,  had  the  floor  been 
cleaned;  it  was  foul  almost  beyond  belief. 

Street-cleaners,  push-cart  pedlers,  dock  labor- 
ers, railroad  section-hands,  newsboys,  bootblacks 
— of  such  as  these  were  the  major  part  of  the  au- 
dience. There  were  a  few  women  and  about  a 
dozen  children.  Most  of  the  children  were  hang- 
ing in  an  ecstasy  of  enchantment  over  the  foot- 
lights, which  were  oil  lamps. 

The  stage  was  small.  It  had  a  back  drop, 
painted  on  a  scale  of  about  one-half,  and  a  couple 
of  rude  "sides"  more  akin  to  the  "tormentors'*  of 
the  ordinary  stage  than  to  any  parts  of  a  "set." 
The  single  fly  drop  —  representing  sky  —  was 
shabby  and  dirty,  a  poor  thing  to  suggest  Italy's 
cerulean  zenith;  and  between  where  the  back 
drop  left  off  and  this  sky  drop  began,  one  might 
have  frequent  glimpses  of  four  swarthy,  dirty 
hands  manipulating  the  marionettes. 

The  manipulators  stood  on  a  rude  platform 
about  three  feet  above  the  stage.  Back  of  them 
and  all  around  them — in  a  way  to  make  a  Broad- 
way stage-manager  desperately  envious — hung  up 
against  the  wall,  thicker  than  lodgers  in  a  Chinese 
rooming-place,  yet  silent  as  the  figures  on  cathe- 

105 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

dral  tombs,  the  actors.  Two  half-grown  boys  took 
down  the  characters  as  they  were  required  upon 
the  stage,  and  dragged  them  to  the  manipulators' 
platform,  returning  with  those  who  had  played 
their  parts  and  were  ready  to  be  hung  up  again 
in  this  Valhalla. 

In  the  right  entrance  (there  was  only  one) 
stood  the  stage-manager,  who  read  all  the  lines 
of  the  male  parts  and  directed  the  movements  of 
the  half-grown  boys.  His  voice  was  the  purest 
music,  and  the  passion,  the  tenderness,  the  de- 
spair, the  vengefulness  he  could  put  into  it  were 
wonderful  to  hear.  It  was  not  really  necessary 
to  understand  the  words  he  spoke;  his  tones 
made  the  story  intelligible.  Not  infrequently  one 
could  overhear  his  directions  to  the  stage-hands 
— and  the  fiercest  pirate  might  well  have  envied 
his  manner  and  his  vocabulary  in  malediction — 
then,  midway  an  awful  threat  to  his  minions,  a 
cue  would  come,  and  without  so  much  as  a  breath 
between,  the  voice  of  the  irascible  stage-manager 
would  become  the  voice  of  the  leading  man, 
pleading  like  an  angel  or  declaiming  like  a  demi- 
god. 

But  with  all  the  wonder  of  his  voice,  it  was  as 
nothing  compared  with  the  voice  of  the  girl  who 
stood  in  the  left  entrance  and  read  the  female 
lines.  One  recalled  Bernhardt's  most  golden 
notes,  Duse's  most  unforgettable  inflections,  and 

1 06 


The  Marionettes 

the  loveliest  cadences  of  Marlowe's  spoken  music; 
none  of  them  was  more  exquisite  than  this  girl's. 
Listening  to  her,  one  forgot  time  and  place. 
Under  the  spell  of  that  voice,  tears  welled,  pas- 
sions throbbed,  and  blood  ran  cold,  alternately. 

The  play  was  some  part  of  the  great  chronicles 
of  Rinaldo,  whose  splendid  exploits  take  a  year 
to  tell. 

Every  one  in  the  vicinity  where  Rodman  and 
his  friends  sat  down  was  anxious  to  make  plain 
to  them  the  exact  point  of  the  story  at  the  moment 
of  their  entrance.  The  courtesy  was  so  cheerful,, 
so  engaging,  that  it  was  hard  to  suggest  by  the 
least  ungratefulness  of  manner  that  one  would 
rather  listen  undisturbed. 

Hunched  over  a  piano,  between  the  footlights 
and  the  first  row  of  chairs  on  the  right,  was  a 
strange,  pathetic-looking  man — now  peering  short- 
sightedly at  the  music  before  him;  now  throwing 
back  his  head  and  playing  proudly,  independent 
of  his  poor  sight  and  forgetful  of  his  poor  self  in 
the  remembrance  of  fine  harmonies. 

The  auditors  knew  the  play  by  heart,  it  seemed. 
They  came  to  the  theatre  not  to  seek  a  new  sensa- 
tion, but  to  find  an  atmosphere  they  loved  and 
craved,  an  atmosphere  of  poetry  and  drama,  of 
brave  deeds  and  fine  chivalry.  On  any  evening 
when  the  day  had  gone  hard — when  the  police 
had  seemed  to  persecute  a  push-cart  pedler,  or 

107 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

the  boss  of  the  gang  had  had  it  in  for  a  White 
Wing,  or  work  in  the  trenches  had  gone  unusually 
hard  with  some  childlike  Sicilian  who  could  not 
understand  why  an  onion  and  a  bit  of  bread,  suf- 
ficient to  sustain  life  in  a  vineyard  in  drowsing 
Sicily,  is  insufficient  to  sustain  it  in  a  street-repair- 
ing gang  in  New  York — one  could  come  in  here 
and  pick  up  the  thread  of  the  familiar  story, 
whichever  epic  it  was,  and  be  of  the  immortals  for 
an  hour  or  two.  Over  on  lower  Sixth  Avenue — to 
say  nothing  about  upper  Broadway — they  had  no 
immortals,  and  they  were  trying  to  satisfy  their 
soul's  starvation  with  the  jailer's  daughter. 

Strange!  how  unreal  that  film  had  seemed,  and 
how  easy  it  was  to  abandon  one's  self  to  the  move- 
ments of  the  marionettes  as  breathlessly  as  to  the 
most  real  actors.  There  were  moments  when  one 
could  hardly  believe  that  the  big  dolls  were  not 
animate — so  cleverly  were  they  handled  and  so 
impassioned  was  the  reading  of  the  lines. 

After  the  performance  was  over,  Rodman  took 
his  little  party  behind  the  scenes.  They  were 
allowed  to  "heft"  the  puppets,  and  were  amazed 
at  the  weight  of  them;  some  of  the  armored  heroes 
weighed  upward  of  two  hundred  pounds. 

When  they  exclaimed  at  the  strength  and  dex- 
terity with  which  these  mannikins  were  handled 
to  such  realistic  effect,  one  of  the  manipulators 
smiled  proudly. 

108 


The  Marionettes 

"Sometimes,"  he  said,  in  explanation,  "since 
Crusades — in  one  family — marionette!" 

"Makes  the  theatrical  families  we  know  about 
seem  less  than  mushrooms,  doesn't  it?"  Davy 
whispered. 

They  met  the  girl  with  the  golden  voice — a 
sweet-mannered,  shy  young  woman,  but  not  pre- 
possessing to  look  at.  She  was  heavily  built  and 
rather  coarse  of  feature;  the  so-brief  adolescence 
of  the  Italian  maid  was  already  far  behind  her, 
although  she  was  probably  not  more  than  twenty; 
her  early  maturity  was  already  past  its  first  flush. 
Her  father  was  the  owner  of  the  marionettes, 
some  of  which  were  venerable  puppets  that  had 
descended  to  him  with  a  long  theatrical  history. 
Her  mother  sold  the  tickets.  Her  father  read  the 
men's  lines  and  managed  the  stage.  The  manip- 
ulators were  her  uncle  and  her  oldest  brother; 
a  younger  brother  and  a  cousin  were  the  much- 
imprecated  stage-hands.  No!  the  piano  player 
was  no  relation.  This  she  said  with  an  air  of 
conscious  superiority,  as  if  to  imply  that  any  one 
may  be  a  piano  player — it  is  a  sporadic  gift 
that  may  develop  and  die  in  one  generation;  not 
like  the  immemorial  facility  of  the  puppet-show- 
men. 

Ansel  Rodman's  chance  acquaintance  was  trans- 
figured with  eager  interest.  The  shy  man  he  had 
been  as  they  came  here  was  lost  now  in  the 

109 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

zealot.  He  had  forgotten  himself.  He  was  con- 
scious of  nothing  but  his  theme. 

"That's  the  nearest  thing  to  it!"  he  exclaimed, 
as  they  left  the  house  of  the  marionettes  and 
turned  once  more  toward  the  Bowery.  "They've 
got  the  beauty  of  poetry — noble  sentiment  and 
haunting  rhythm — and  the  appeal  to  the  eye — 
and  the  musical  accompaniment.  But  I  suppose 
it  would  be  impossible  to  transplant  the  puppets. 
In  another  environment  the  appeal  to  the  eye 
would  have  to  be  made  otherwise.  The  love  of 
them  is  an  Italian  heritage,  like  the  skill  to  work 
them.  Irish,  or  Jews,  or  Germans,  or  Scandi- 
navians, or  Slavs  would  scorn  them." 

"I  dare  say  they  would,"  assented  Rodman, 

"But  I  want,"  the  stranger  went  on,  "to  see 
all  that's  dear  to  each  nation  kept  zealously  alive 
here — the  folk  dances,  the  religions  and  com- 
memorative festivals,  the  music,  the  hero  tales; 
but  not  their  own  exclusively — only  to  begin 
with !  Then  the  hero  tales,  and  the  tender  poetry, 
of  other  races — that  brotherhood  may  spread  as 
understanding  widens." 

"It's  a  magnificent  dream,"  commented  Ansel 
Rodman. 

The  Bowery  is  the  place  par  excellence  for 
cheap  lodging-houses  where  vagrant  and  unem- 
ployed and  shifting  men  abide  briefly.  An  army 
of  these  men — most  of  whom  the  present  scheme 

no 


The  Marionettes 

of  things  seems,  somehow,  not  to  assimilate — 
always  assails  the  wonder  and  the  pity  of  the 
sentient  passer-by. 

"Look  at  them!"  the  stranger  cried.  "Those 
of  them  that  have  money  lounging  in  and  out 
of  low  saloons — the  only  places  where  they're 
welcome,  except  in  missions,  and  their  meetings 
are  over  now.  Those  that  haven't  money  will  be 
heading  for  the  bread  line  pretty  soon.  I've  been 
in  the  bread  line — on  many  a  night.  And  I've 
slept  in  these  lodging-houses.  No,  I  wasn't  '  in- 
vestigating'! I  was  doing  the  best  I  could.  And 
I  know  what  it  is  to  be  hungry  for  food.  But 
that  isn't  the  worst  hunger  these  men  suffer! 
Their  worst  hunger — whether  they  know  it  or  not 
— is  for  something  not  just  to  sustain  life,  but  to 
make  life  seem  worth  sustaining;  something  to 
take  them  out  of  their  miserable  reality  and  make 
them  feel  like  men  the  world  needs.  That's  why 
they  drink — most  of  them! — it's  the  only  way  they 
know  to  get  away  from  themselves  and  their  awful 
impotence.  If  you  could  reach  them  now!  If 
you  could  get  behind  their  dull  preoccupation  and 
leave  a  spark  there — something  that  would  kindle 
a  glow!  Books  can't  do  it — because  they  don't 
read  books.  And  theatres  can't  do  it — because 
no  theatre  but  the  noblest  has  the  enkindling 
spark,  and  no  theatre  but  the  meanest  wants  these 
men's  patronage.  And  pulpits  can't  do  it — be- 

iii 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

cause  these  men  won't  listen  to  what  the  pul- 
piteers say.  You've  got  to  get  them  on  elemental 
principles — like  story-telling  to  children  and  to 
childlike  races  of  men.  Those  marionettes  came 
near  being  the  thing!" 

"But  the  marionettes,"  reminded  Davy,  "have 
an  inherited  fondness  to  appeal  to.  It  would  be 
pioneering,  over  here!" 

"It  would  be  harder  even  than  that,"  the 
stranger  agreed;  "it  would  be  trail-breaking. 
But  I  hope  to  do  it — before  I  die." 

"I  hope  you  will!"  said  Rose  earnestly.  "And 
I  hope  it  '11  be  before  /  die,  too." 

"You  believe  in  it?"  he  asked  her  eagerly. 

"Of  course  I  believe  in  it!"  she  cried.  "Who 
wouldn't?" 

He  smiled — as  if  he  knew  many  who  wouldn't. 

"I  think  I  have  some  qualifications  for  the 
work,"  he  went  on.  "I  was  a  skilled  mechanic 
once.  I  know  something  about  men  who  work. 
And  I  was  a  vagrant — a  bum — drink  did  it!  I've 
'done  time,'  too — it  was  there  I  got  my  taste  for 
books — and  I  know  something  about  the  men 
society  has  to  lock  up  for  its  own  safety.  When 
I  came  out  I  was  queer,  I  guess.  Going  back 
to  my  trade  just  to  make  a  living  for  myself  didn't 
appeal  to  me.  There  wasn't  any  one  I  had  to 
think  about — to  work  for.  So  I — well,  while  I 
was  looking  round,  trying  to  decide  what  I  would 

112 


The  Marionettes 

do,  I  had  to  pick  up  enough  pennies  to  live  on — 
the  price  of  a  lodging  and  one  meal  a  day,  with 
coffee  and  rolls  in  the  morning.  I  was  crazy 
about  the  libraries — couldn't  keep  out  of  them. 
Books  and  ideas  got  to  affect  me  almost  like  the 
drink  had — I'm  that  kind,  I  guess.  I  found  that 
I  could  earn  fifty  cents  an  evening  'supeing'  on 
the  stage — I  got  interested  in  the  theatre — and  I 
was  an  actor  before  I  knew  it.  But  I  got  tired 
of  it.  When  I  had  learned  something  about  de- 
livering a  message,  I  found  that  nine  times  out 
of  ten  the  message  I  got  to  deliver  wasn't  worth 
trying  to  get  over  the  footlights — the  plays  we 
played  might  have  been  written  in  Mars,  they 
were  so  remote  from  this  world  of  men.  Some- 
times I'd  see  a  face  in  the  audience — one  white 
face  out  of  hundreds  of  white  faces  against  the 
dimness — on  which  my  eyes  would  focus.  It  was 
a  hungry  face.  It  would  haunt  me.  I'd  yearn 
to  reach  it  with  something  that  might  comfort, 
might  satisfy.  But  I  had  only  the  playwright's 
cheap,  remote  sentences  that  I  might  say.  Ego- 
mania of  the  actor,  I  suppose!  They  say  we  all 
have  it.  At  any  rate,  here  I  am.  I've  spent  this 
summer  trying  to  study  out  this  problem.  When 
August  came  I  was  too  deep  in  it  to  haunt  the 
theatrical  agencies  looking  for  a  job.  And  no 
agency  put  its  shutters  up  and  suspended  business 
while  it  went  a-searching  for  me." 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

They  had  turned  off  the  noisy  Bowery,  with 
its  trains  thundering  overhead,  when  they  saw 
that  he  was  inclined  to  talk.  The  cross  streets 
whereon  no  cars  ran  were  fairly  quiet  now. 

They  were  at  the  Inneses'  door  before  any  of 
them  realized  they  could  have  gone  half  so  far. 

"You'll  come  in  and  have  a  bite  of  supper  with 
us,  won't  you?"  Rose  said,  addressing  both  Rod- 
man and  the  stranger. 

"Surely,"  accepted  Rodman. 

"I  think  not,"  the  stranger  began,  hesitating 
like  a  man  who  feels  that  he  should  decline,  dearly 
as  he  would  like  to  accept.  "I — you  know  noth- 
ing about  me — except  what  I've  told  of  myself," 
he  faltered. 

"Then  the  honors  are  even,"  cried  Davy,  "for 
you  know  nothing  about  us." 

He  yielded.  "You  are  very  kind,"  he  said. 
"My  name  is  Ballard  Creighton — Walter  Ballard 
Creighton-,  but  I've  never  been  able  to  feel  that 
'Walter'  belonged  with  me — so  I  try  to  forget  it." 

"And  my  name's  Rodman." 

"Not  Ansel  Rodman?" 

"Yes." 

"My  dear  sir!"  cried  Creighton,  gripping  Rod- 
man's hand.  He  had  no  need  to  say  anything 
further.  What  the  name  meant  to  him  shone  in 
his  eyes. 

"And  these  are  my  dear  young  friends  the 
114 


The  Marionettes 

Inneses,"  Rodman  went  on,  "Miss  Rose  Innes 
and  David  Innes.  There  is  a  chance  that  we 
shall  find  John  upstairs." 

They  did.  He  was  prone  upon  the  dining- 
room  floor  before  a  saucer  of  cream  and  an  infin- 
itesimal tiger  kitten. 

"Miss  Goitie  Moiphy,"  said  Johnny,  sitting  up 
and  waving  his  hand  toward  the  kitten. 

They  introduced  Creighton — or  started  to.  But 
he  and  Johnny  knew  something  of  each  other,  it 
seemed. 

"You're  John  Livingstone  Innes,"  Creighton 
said. 

"On  the  playbills — just  Johnny  everywhere  else. 
And  you're  Ballard  Creighton — I've  seen  you  a  lot 
of  times." 

Creighton  seemed  not  to  have  heard  what 
Johnny  said.  "You're  Lyman  Innes's  son!"  He 
spoke  as  if  he  were  thinking  aloud  rather  than 
addressing  any  one. 

Rodman  and  the  three  Inneses  turned  inquiring 
looks  on  him. 

"I  was  in  that  strike,"  he  explained  briefly — as 
if  he  dared  not  trust  himself  in  lengthy  explana- 
tion. "  I — I'm  just  one  of  the  thousands  of  men 
who — who  feel  that  he  gave  his  life  for  us."  His 
lips  twitched  and  he  turned  his  face  away. 

Nobody  spoke.  But  there  was  abundant  elo- 
quence in  the  way  Davy  took  his  hat — as  if  to 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

say:  That  makes  you  one  of  us — and  in  the  way 
Rose  laid  a  place  for  him  at  their  table. 

When  Rose  went  to  the  kitchen  Goitie  Moiphy 
frisked  after  her. 

" Come  here,  fickle  one ! "  Johnny  cried.  "  Isn't 
there  a  grateful  female  alive  ?  Where's  your  un- 
dying devotion  to  your  rescuer  ? " 

But  Goitie  paid  no  heed. 

"I  was  coming  out  of  the  theatre,"  Johnny 
began,  telling  his  tale  to  the  two  men,  "when  a 
young  person  blocked  my  way  squarely.  She 
had  yonder  beast  in  her  arms.  'Say,  Mister!' 
she  accosted  me,  'yeh  don't  want  a  kitten — do 
yeh?'  'What's  the  matter  with  it?'  I  sez — sus- 
picious-like.  'Nothin'!'  sez  she.  'You're  one  of 
my  admirers,  then?'  sez  I;  'a  matinee  girl,  i* 
sooth!'  'Aw,  quit  yer  kiddin','  sez  me  frien'. 
'  D  'ye  want  the  cat,  er  don't  yeh  ?  Me  step-mudder 
won'  leave  me  have  her  in  the  house — an'  I'm 
a-scairt  t'  turn  her  loose  fer  fear  a  dog  '11  git 
her.'  'That  being  the  sad  case,  I'll  take  her,' 
I  sez.  'What  is  her  name  ?'  'Her  name  is  Goitie 
Moiphy — out  o'  the  po-um.'  I  pass  hurriedly 
over  the  parting — which  was  painful — and  here 
we  are.  But  I  gave  Goitie's  ex-parent  her  new 
address,  and  invited  her  to  call,  from  time  to 
time,  and  see  how  Goitie  fared.  She  said  she 
would." 

"What  'po-um'  is  Goitie  Moiphy  'out  of?" 
116 


The  Marionettes 

asked   Rodman,   who  seemed   to  tease  his  own 
brain  in  vain  for  remembrance  of  it. 

Johnny  recited  it.  He  had  the  curious  New 
York  accent  which  corresponds  to  London's  coster- 
speech,  down  to  excruciating  nicety. 

"Little  Goitie  Moiphy 

Soitingly  wuz  a  boid. 
She  lived  in  Toity-second  Street 

A  block  from  Toity-toid. 
She  sometimes  read  de  Joinal, 

And  likewoise  read  de  Woild. 
And  all  de  boys  loved  Goitie, 

When  Goitie's  hair  was  cuhled." 

"That's  strange!"  said  Davy  musingly.  "The 
child  must  come  of  people  who — well!  don't  you 
see  ?  People  who  talk  that  way,  wouldn't  see 
anything  in  the  'po-um/  It  can  only  have  been 
repeated  to  her  by  some  one  who — who  knew  it 
was  a  parody,  and  relished  it." 

"Eh,  Watson?"  said  Johnny,  as  if  concluding 
for  him.  "Oh,  the  terrible  Sherlock  our  Davy  is 
getting  to  be!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

EMILY   INSISTS    ON   TEMPTING    FATE 

"T  CAN'T  go,  dear.  I'm  sorry — for  your  sake — 
A  but  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could.  I  don't  know 
what  madness  made  me  promise." 

Emily  Bristow  began  to  cry.  "I  might  have 
known!"  she  sobbed.  "It's  always  the  same — 
always  will  be,  I  see  now!" 

Mrs.  Bristow  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
where  Emily  had  flung  herself,  and  laid  a  caress- 
ing and  an  entreating  hand  on  the  girl's  shaking 
shoulders. 

"But,  Emily,  dear  —  think!"  she  pleaded. 
"Think  what  this  is  that  you  want  to  do.  I  know 
I've  been  selfish  in  my  grief  and  shame.  You're 
young  and  you're  entitled  to  youth's  happiness. 
You  have  been  cheated  of  too  much  of  it,  I  know. 
I  grieve  myself  sick  about  it,  oftentimes.  You've 
been  a  devoted  daughter — too  devoted!  I'm  go- 
ing to  be  less  selfish — to  remember  your  pleasure 
more.  But  this — !  You  know  as  well  as  I  do, 
Emily,  that  this  is  impossible." 

"I  don't  see,"  Emily  began,  raising  her  head 
from  the  pillow,  "why  it's  so  impossible.  They 

118 


Emily  Insists  on  Tempting  Fate 

don't  know  who  we  are!  And  if  they  did! 
They're  broad-minded  enough  to  know  it  wasn't 
our  fault — and  that  we've  suffered  for  it  as  much 
as  they  have." 

Mrs.  Bristow  was  thinking  hard.  "Are  you 
willing,"  she  asked  at  length,  "to  give  them  the 
choice — to  tell  them  who  you  are  and  let  them  say 
whether  they  want  to  receive  you  in  their  home  ? " 

Emily  flushed.  "I  don't  see  any  use  of  that," 
she  answered. 

"It  is  the  only  honorable  way  you  can  keep 
their  acquaintance." 

"You  have  met  the  boys — you  let  her  come 
here  and  call " 

"You  know  how  I  met  the  boys — casually, 
unavoidably — not  of  my  seeking.  And  as  for  the 
call — well,  I  felt  a  sneak  about  that,  though  she 
came  of  her  own  will,  not  of  my  asking.  I  think 
now  that  it  was  wrong — all  wrong.  They  might 
not  wish  even  to  shake  hands  with  us  if  they 
knew." 

"I  don't  believe  that!" 

"Then  test  it." 

"I  can't,  Mother.  I'm  as  anxious  to  bury  the 
past  as  you  are.  I  don't  feel  that  I  ought  to  be 
asked  to  fight  it.  I  wasn't  responsible  for  it.  I 
refuse  to  bear  the  blame." 

"  But  you  said  you  didn't  think  they'd  wish  you 
to  bear  the  blame." 

119 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"I  don't — but  once  we  acknowledge  it  some- 
body else  may  find  out— it  may  spread.    I  couldn't 
bear  it — the  discovery — the  curiosity- 
Emily  did  not  see  her  mother's  face. 
"Shall  we  slip  away  again  ?"  her  mother  asked. 
"Shall  we  begin  all  over— far  away?" 

"Oh,  Mother!  After  all  we've  been  through — 
South  America — Australia — the  ends  of  the  earth 
— the  byways.  Haven't  I  stood  enough  ?  We're 
as  safe  here  as  there,  if  we  keep  quiet.  And  I 
want  to  stay  among  people  of  my  own  kind  — and 
have  a  chance." 

"  I  know,"  her  mother  soothed  her.  "  But  what 
fate!  Almost  the  first  persons  we  are  thrown  into 
association  with  in  New  York  are  the — the  chil- 
dren of  the  man  your  father  killed." 

"That's  it!"  cried  Emily  eagerly,  grasping  at 
her  mother's  admission  of  fate.  "It  must  be 
meant — why  do  we  try  to  evade  it  ?  I  come  here 
and  try  to  get  work.  I  have  nothing  to  plead  for 
me  except  the  few  meagre  little  notices  of  what  I 
did  in  Australia  and  New  Zealand.  Yet  I  get 
into  one  of  the  best  companies  here — playing  a 
New  York  engagement  of  months — perhaps  a 
year — and  the  first  person  I  meet  at  rehearsal  is 
John  Livingstone  Innes.  You  go  downtown  and 
try  to  get  work — and  they  tell  you  that  they  don't 
need  any  one  to  'hack'  at  the  women's  page  or 
write  about  suffrage  in  New  Zealand,  but  that  you 

120 


Emily  Insists  on  Tempting  Fate 

might  see  Mr.  Innes — and  before  you  can  refuse, 
there  is  David  Innes  before  you,  halted  on  his 
way  through  the  office  and  told  you  want  to  see 
him.  You  hedge  and  hesitate,  and  tell  him  you 
have  never  reviewed  books.  And  he  laughs  and 
says  that  that  is  the  kind  of  reviewer  he  is  look- 
ing for.  If  that  isn't  fate,  I'd  like  to  know  what 
it  is  ?  And  if  it  is  fate,  what's  the  use  of  trying  to 
resist  it  ? " 

Mrs.  Bristow  looked  thoughtful.  "Emily,"  she 
said,  "I've  had  reason,  before  now,  to  think  that 
way — to  believe  I  was  following  out  my  fate.  But 
I  learned  to  distrust  it.  I  yielded  to  what  I  was 
pleased  to  call  the  inevitable.  Bitter  experience 
taught  me  that  I  should  have  fought  instead." 

Emily  loved  her  mother  passionately,  and  ad- 
mired her  with  a  reverent  awe.  But  her  devoted 
compliance  hitherto  had  been  no  real  test,  for 
her  mother  was  her  all-in-all.  Now  other  loves 
were  stirring  in  her — the  love  of  life,  which  was 
pleasanter  here  than  it  had  ever  been  before; 
and  the  love  of  Johnny  Innes.  This  latter  she 
did  not  admit  even  to  herself,  much  less  to  her 
mother. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mother,"  she  said — and  her  voice 
had  a  note  in  it  her  mother  had  never  heard  before 
— "but  I  can't  agree  with  you.  I  suppose  I  must 
be  a  fatalist." 

Mrs.  Bristow  smiled,  a  sad,  wise  little  ghost  of 

J2I 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

a  smile.  She  was  resigned,  perforce;  but  she 
could  not  help  being  sorry  that  her  dearly  bought 
wisdom  would  serve  not  one  whit  to  save  her 
child. 

"All  young  persons  who  are  trying  to  make 
themselves  believe  in  what  they  want  to  do  are 
*  fatalists' — for  a  while,"  she  said. 

"Things  are  as  they  happen  here  on  Sunday 
evenings/'  Rose  explained  to  the  Bristows.  She 
was  in  her  room  with  them  while  they  laid  aside 
their  hats  and  coats.  "It  is  Johnny's  only  free 
evening,  and  sometimes  we're  all  here;  sometimes 
we  all  go  elsewhere.  Any  of  our  friends  who  dine 
at  midday — as  we  do — and  can  be  content  with 
a  simple  supper  which  I  get  myself,  feel  free  to 
call  us  up  and  see  if  we'll  be  home,  then  join  us 
round  our  salad  bowl.  Mr.  Irving  Penhallow  is 
here  now.  He  was  a  dear  friend  of  my  father's,  and 
is  a  most  delightful  gentleman.  Some  time  you'll 
see,  I  hope,  the  enchanting  place  he  lives  in — and 
hear  the  story  of  his  life.  It  is  charming.  Then 
there  is  a  new  acquaintance  of  ours — a  man  we 
met  only  the  other  evening — Mr.  Ballard  Creigh- 
ton- 

"He's  an  actor,"  Emily  broke  in.  "I've  heard 
of  him." 

Rose  nodded.  "And  that  is  all,"  she  finished. 
"Dudley  Prichard  usually  comes  in — he'll  proba- 

122 


Emily  Insists  on  Tempting  Fate 

bly  be  here.  You'll  be  interested  in  him,  Mrs. 
Bristow.  Most  people  think  he's  the  cleverest 
man  we've  got  in  his  line." 

Mrs.  Bristow  was  inconcealably  nervous  and 
shy.  Emily,  too,  was  far  from  being  at  her  ease. 
Rose  was  accustomed  to  shy  persons.  In  fact, 
she  herself  was  shy;  but  somehow  she  seemed 
usually  to  be  so  placed  that  she  had  to  forget  her 
shyness.  For  her  unselfishness  and  her  sympathy 
were  so  strong  that  they  carried  down  her  shrink- 
ing by  their  greater  might. 

"What  an  interesting  apartment  you  have!" 
Emily  exclaimed  as  they  loitered  through  the 
dining-room  on  their  way  from  Rose's  bedroom 
to  the  living-room. 

"We  have  Mr.  Penhallow  to  thank  for  the  beauty 
of  our  mahogany,"  Rose  said.  "He's  a  wonder- 
ful connoisseur  in  furniture.  When  my  parents 
bought  this  he  was  daft  about  Colonial  styles  and 
he  picked  out  these  exquisite  things  for  them.  A 
little  later  he  had  abandoned  Colonial  for  Chip- 
pendale and  Sheraton.  He  went  from  that  to 
Louis  Quinze,  I  believe — then  took  a  jump  into 
some  Dutch  period  that  I've  forgotten  the  name  of. 
Just  now  he's  deep  in  things  Florentine." 

"He  must  have  a  warehouse  to  keep  them  all 
in,"  suggested  Mrs.  Bristow. 

"That's  where  the  charming  story  about  him 
comes  in,"  Rose  answered  smiling.  "He  doesn't 

123 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

keep  them.  When  he  gets  a  collection  as  nearly 
perfect  as  he  can,  and  has  remodelled  some  place 
to  be  a  setting  worthy  of  it,  he  sells  it  all — and 
begins  again." 

"Doesn't  he  hate  to  ?"  asked  Emily. 

"Oh,  not  the  least  little  bit  in  the  world!  For 
by  the  time  he  has  one  place  perfected  he  has  got 
keen  on  the  scent  of  another  and  more  difficult 
chase,  and  he  doesn't  want  anything  on  earth  but 
to  follow  it.  We  tell  him  he's  a  lovely  benefactor 
— that  he  goes  around  leaving  beauty  behind  him, 
like  Johnny  Appleseed  leaving  orchards.  But 
he  denies  it — the  benevolence,  I  mean.  In  any 
event,  he's  a  philosopher — whether  he  admits  it  or 
not — for  he  keeps  himself  constantly  in  a  state  of 
zestful  expectancy.  He  is  always  interested  and 
always  happy.  Every  period  he  goes  into  opens 
up  a  new  world  to  him.  And  he's  one  of  those 
delightful  persons  who  have  the  gift  of  sharing 
their  discoveries  and  making  their  enthusiasms 
contagious.  I'm  so  glad  he's  here  this  evening." 

Immediately  they  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the 
living-room  Mrs.  Bristow  became  aware  of  Ly- 
man  Innes's  portrait.  It  hung  above  the  mantel, 
and  showed  Innes  sitting,  as  she  had  so  often  seen 
him  sit,  one  hand  propping  his  face,  his  eyes 
dominant,  intent,  eagerly  questioning. 

She  had  nerved  herself  for  this;  but  it  was 
harder  even  than  she  had  expected  it  would  be. 

124 


Emily  Insists  on  Tempting  Fate 

The  four  men  rose. 

"Mrs.  Bristow,"  Rose  was  saying,  "let  me 
introduce  Mr.  Irving  Penhallow — and  Mr.  Bal- 
lard  Creighton.  Miss  Bristow,  Mr.  Penhallow — 
Mr.  Creighton." 

Davy  and  Johnny  were  most  hearty  in  their 
welcome,  Johnny,  as  was  natural,  constituting 
himself  Emily's  host-in-particular  and  Davy  act- 
ing the  same  toward  Mrs.  Bristow. 

"Show  Mrs.  Bristow  your  den,  Davy,"  Rose 
suggested,  as  soon  as  she  could  do  so  without 
seeming  to  plan  their  escape. 

Davy's  den  was  a  little  place  of  hall-bedroom 
size,  off  the  living-room.  It  had  nothing  partic- 
ularly to  commend  it  except  Davy's  collection  of 
autographs — signed  photographs,  authors'  copies 
of  books,  letters,  and  bits  of  cherished  manuscript. 
But  if  one  cared  for  that  sort  of  thing — as  Mrs. 
Bristow  did — it  was  a  treasure-chamber  in  a  mild 
way. 

"Oh,  there's  nothing  really  valuable  here," 
Davy  said,  answering  her  exclamation  of  wonder 
— "  that  is,  except  of  sentimental  value.  I've 
nothing  very  rare,  or  very  old — nothing  that  has 
a  market  value  among  collectors.  Most  of  the 
people  represented  here  are  living — any  one  can 
have  their  autographs  for  the  asking,  with  stamp 
enclosed.  But  I  didn't  get  mine  that  way.  These 
are  people  I  know  and  am  proud  to  know.  I'm 

125 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

like  Rose:  I  love  people  the  world's  debt  to  whom 
I  see  in  a  vision  instead  of  reading  it  in  a  library. 
Her  faith  in  her  friends  is  beautiful — isn't  it?" 

Mrs.  Bristow  smiled  a  tender  assent  which 
seemed  to  satisfy  Davy,  who  was  seldom  satisfied 
with  any  one's  appreciation  of  Rose. 

"Books  and  books!"  he  went  on,  indicating 
with  a  glance  the  filled  shelves  which  ran  to 
within  a  foot  and  a  half  of  the  ceiling  and  occupied 
every  available  bit  of  wall  space.  "But  you'll 
be  interested  in  this,"  he  said,  laying  a  hand  on 
the  back  of  a  revolving-chair  which  stood  before 
his  working-table.  "This  was  my  dear  father's 
chair  in  his  office  at  the  Capitol — the  State  gave 
it  to  us — he  was  not  a  minute  out  of  it,  after 
making  his  last  stand  for  the  striking  men,  when 
he  was  shot." 

Fortunately  for  Mrs.  Bristow,  Davy's  short- 
sighted, pale-blue  eyes  blurred  with  tears  and  he 
had  to  take  off  his  thick  eye-glasses  to  wipe  them. 

In  that  brief  moment  she  had  steadied  herself 
somewhat,  so  that  when  Davy  resumed  his  glasses 
and  was  able  to  see  her  face  there  was  nothing  in 
it  to  indicate  that  her  clutch  on  his  arm  had  been 
for  support,  not  in  sympathy. 

"I — I  don't  see  how  you  bear  it,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"I  love  to  bear  it,"  Davy  answered.  "Nobody 
knows  what  a  help  it  is  to  me." 

126 


Emily  Insists  on  Tempting  Fate 

"You  don't  try,  then,  to  forget?" 

"Oh,  no!  no!  no!  it  is  my  great  honor  to  re- 
member." 

"Yes — of  course.  Any  one  whose  honor  that 
was  would — would  not  wish  to  forget  because 
there  was  pain  in  the  remembrance." 

"There  is  no  pain  in  the  remembrance,"  he 
replied. 

"No,  but  regret,  of  course — that  he  was  tak- 
en  " 

"Mrs.  Bristow,"  Davy  began,  studying  her  in- 
tently through  his  thick  glasses,  "I  wonder  if  you 
will  understand  me  if  I  say  that  I  have  tried  to 
learn  not  to  regret  my  father's  assassination." 

Her  startled  look  seemed  to  deny  the  likelihood 
of  her  understanding  him.  "You  mean — ?"  she 
whispered  almost  inaudibly. 

"I  mean,"  he  went  on,  "that  in  my  studies — 
and  naturally  I  have  taken  an  intense  interest  in 
political  economy  and  social  subjects — I  think  I 
have  learned  to  see  how  greatly  Father  served  in 
his  death.  No  man  by  his  life  could  have  done 
for  a  great  cause  what  Father  did  by  his  death. 
I  don't  know  whether  you  realize  it,  but  that  out- 
pouring of  sympathy  that  followed  his  death  was 
the  beginning  of  a  new  day  for  labor  in  America. 
The  wrongs  of  the  working  man  got  their  first 
great  airing,  in  the  revelations  which  followed  on 
his  murder.  That  was  the  beginning  of  any  gen- 

127 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

eral  sympathy  with  labor's  right  to  organize. 
It's  a  wonderful  thing  to  give  your  life  for  a 
result  like  that!  If  Father  could  have  foreseen 
the  outcome,  I  believe  he  would  have  laid  his  life 
down  gladly.  ...  I  try  not  to  be  selfish.  I 
try  to  be  glad  for  him!  .  .  .  and  that  is  why  I 
say  I  try  not  to  regret " 

She  was  silent  for  some  time  after  he  ceased 
speaking,  and  he  made  no  effort  to  hasten  her  reply. 

At  length,  "I  think  I  understand,"  she  said 
slowly.  "It  is  a  big  view  you  take — a  noble 
view.  I  am  so  glad — so  very  glad  you  told  me. 
I — I  think  my  mind  never  got  beyond  the-— the 
tragedy — before.  I  am  so  grateful  to  you  for 
telling  me  what  you  did — and  how  you  feel." 

When  they  rejoined  the  others  they  found  the 
talk  touching,  for  the  moment,  Johnny's  resem- 
blance to  the  Cavalier,  whose  portrait  hung  oppo- 
site that  of  Lyman  Innes. 

"I  wore  an  outfit  like  that  in  a  play  once," 
Johnny  was  saying,  "and  the  likeness  was  start- 
ling." 

"Never  mind  that  likeness,  Johnny,"  Rose 
admonished  him.  "He  gets  fatalistic  about  it 
sometimes,"  she  explained  to  Mrs.  Bristow,  "and 
feels  kind  of  in  duty  bound  to  act  the  part  as  well 
as  look  it.  You  look  like  your  father,  too,  Johnny 
dear.  I  wish  you  spent  more  time  trying  to  act 
like  him." 

128 


Emily  Insists  on  Tempting  Fate 

She  laughed  as  she  said  it,  making  a  light  mat- 
ter, superficially,  of  what  was  really  a  serious  con- 
cern of  hers  and  Davy's. 

"That,"  said  Johnny,  "is  a  stab  at  my  pro- 
fession. I  don't  believe  Rose  has  ever  really  got 
over  her  idea  that  it  is  demeaning,  for  an  Innes." 

Rose  flushed.  With  two  of  their  guests  actor 
folk,  it  wasn't  nice  of  Johnny  to  slip  out  of  a  per- 
sonal charge  and  leave  the  burden  on  his  calling. 
But  also,  she  reflected,  it  wasn't  nice  of  her  to  put 
Johnny  on  the  defensive  before  strangers. 

"Indeed  I  have  got  over  that  idea!"  she  re- 
torted. "I'm  sure  we're  very  grateful  to  you — 
both  Davy  and  I — for  having  gone  into  a  profes- 
sion where  you  meet  such  charming  people — 
whose  acquaintance  we  may  share.  There  was  a 
time,"  she  went  on  to  explain  to  Creighton  and 
to  the  Bristows,  "when  we  knew  almost  nothing 
about  stage  folk,  and  had  all  the  weird  notions 
about  them  that  many  people  have.  And  the 
revelations  we  have  had!  We've  never  met  any 
one  who  corresponded  in  the  least  degree  with 
our  preconceived  ideas.  Who  originates  those 
prevalent  ideas,  anyway?" 

"The  same  class,  relatively,"  answered  Ballard 
Creighton,  "which  poses  for  nearly  all  pictures 
called  'typical';  the  class  that  is  blatantly  in 
evidence  wherever  superficial  observers  are  likely 
to  be;  the  same  class — relatively — that  started  the 

129 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

popular  conception  of  the  'Wild  West/  and  of 
the  '  Sunny  South/  and  of  that  coastless  country, 
the  artists'  'Bohemia/  and — worst  wickedness  of 
all! — that  started  the  popular  conception  of  the 
laboring  man,  especially  the  laboring  man  who 
goes  on  strike.  I  tell  you,  if  there's  ever  any  day 
when  men  are  judged  by  One  who  can  mete  out 
deserts,  I'd  rather  take  chances  as  the  hardest 
commandment-breaker,  than  as  one  of  those  slan- 
derers who,  because  they  are  too  lazy  to  look  for 
the  truth,  pass  on  a  lie  about  their  fellows!" 

"Hear,  hear!"  cried  Johnny,  breaking  the  ten- 
sion that  Creighton's  passionately  earnest  speech 
had  drawn. 

"You  said  'if  there's  ever  any  day/  "  said  Mrs. 
Bristow.  "Don't  you  believe  there  will  be?" 

"No,"  answered  Creighton.  "I  hope  it  some- 
times, but  I  don't  believe  it!  I  don't  believe  in 
any  religion  as  a  revealed  religion,"  he  went  on, 
not  defiantly,  but  respectfully  and  as  with  deep 
regret.  "I  wish  I  did!  I  revere  all  religions,  as 
things  men  have  made  out  of  their  deepest  need 
for  their  uplifting.  But  I  can't  make  myself  be- 
lieve that  any  of  them  has  an  origin  other  than  in 
men's  wish  to  think  them  the  truth.  I  wish  this 
were  not  so!  I  wish  I  believed  absolutely  in 
something  as  the  Will  of  the  Divine.  But  most 
of  all,  I  wish  I  believed  in  the  religion  of  Christ. 
I'd  give  anything  on  earth  to  believe  that!  But 

130 


Emily  Insists  on  Tempting  Fate 

nobody  believes  it — nobody  believes  it,"  he  re- 
peated sadly,  "or  the  world  couldn't  be  what  it  is." 

"I  think,"  said  Rose  gently,  "that  nobody  be- 
lieves it  enough — or  the  world  couldn't  be  what  it 
is.  But  I  think  also  that  many  people  must 
believe  it  some — or  the  world  wouldn't  be  what 
it  is." 

"Rose  loves  humanity,"  Davy  said,  as  if  re- 
minding Creighton,  "and  believes  in  it.  She  is 
what  you  would  call  an  idealist." 

Creighton  smiled.  "So  do  I  love  humanity," 
he  replied,  "and  believe  in  it.  Though  I  am 
what  you,  perhaps,  would  call  an  iconoclast.  I 
love  it  in  spite  of  what  my  eyes  have  seen  of  its 
weakness.  She  loves  it  because  of  what  her  vision 
perceives  of  its  strength.  I  would  have  chosen 
her  way — had  choice  been  mine.  But  with  the 
way  I  know,  I  must  do  my  best." 

"And  such  a  splendid  'best'  you  have  to  do!" 
said  Rose,  her  eyes  alight.  "  Davy,  have  you 
told  Mr.  Creighton  what  we  thought  of — about 
Lucius  McCurdy?" 

"No,"  answered  Davy,  "but  I  will." 

"And  as  I  know,  I'll  slip  out  while  you're  tell- 
ing, and  put  the  kettle  on." 

"McCurdy,"  Davy  began,  "was  a  classmate 
of  mine  in  college.  I  think  that  even  then  we 
felt  sure  Lucius  was  going  to  have  a  unique 
career  of  some  sort.  He's  as  handsome  as  a 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

young  Greek  god  and  as  silver-tongued  as — as 
Demosthenes;  and  he  didn't  need  pebbles  for  it, 
either!  He's  a  tremendous  swell — part  of  the 
time:  plays  polo  and  leads  cotillons  to  beat  the 
band.  And  the  rest  of  the  time — well!  I'm  going 
too  fast.  He  studied  law  and  got  into  the  Dis- 
trict-Attorney's office.  There  he  got  the  little 
cases  to  prosecute — the  petty  criminality  of  Cherry 
Hill  and  such  like.  He  got  interested  in  Cherry 
Hill  and  its  'gang'  of  young  ruffians.  And,  first 
thing  we  knew,  he  had  gone  down  there  to  live. 
He  couldn't  have  set  himself  a  more  Herculean 
task.  But  he  was  equal  to  it!  Cherry  Hill 
adores  him — he's  a  power  there — and  through 
Cherry  Hill  he  has  laid  his  gloved  grip  on  politics. 
He's  a  big  henchman  now.  And  there's  talk  of 
his  being  Governor  not  many  years  hence.  He's 
a  wonderful  'stall'  for  his  party  to  put  up — aris- 
tocratic connections  and  Cherry  Hill  constituency! 
And  he's  working  for  it.  His  slogan  is  '  Practical 
Politics!'  He  thinks  that  when  he  gets  in  power 
he  can  use  the  power  for  good." 

"Old,  old  delusion,"  Creighton  muttered. 

"Yes;  and  no!"  said  Davy.  "That  is,  it's  old, 
and  has  usually  proved  a  delusion.  But  with 
Lucius,  I'm  inclined  to  believe — well!  he  has 
demonstrated  in  a  small  way.  I  don't  take  stock, 
either,  in  the  man  who  says,  '  If  I  had  a  whole  lot 
of  power,  or  of  money,  I  could  do  a  whole  lot  of 

132 


Emily  Insists  on  Tempting  Fate 

good,'  and  is  undisturbed  by  the  fact  that  with 
the  power  and  money  he  has  got  he  is  doing  next 
to  nothing  at  all.  Lucius  isn't  that  sort.  For 
instance,  there's  a  club  in  the  Cherry  Hill  district. 
It's  called  an  'athletic  club/  but  the  kind  of  ath- 
letics it  favored  made  it  the  breeding-place  of 
about  a  third  of  the  mean  criminality  in  New 
York.  Lucius  has  made  that  club  over.  He  has 
made  it  a  power  for  decency  and  order.  And 
the  club  doesn't  realize  that  it  is  reformed!  That's 
Lucius  for  you!  I  haven't  begun  to  tell  about 
him — but  he  wants  you,  Creighton,  to  go  down 
there  with  Rose  and  me,  and  dine  with  him,  and 
tell  him  your  idea,  and  what  you  need  to  give  it 
a  trial." 

Creighton  did  not  look  as  eager  as  Davy  had 
hoped  he  would.  "I  doubt,"  he  said  almost 
ungraciously,  "if  he  and  I  could  hit  it  off.  We 
may  be  working  to  the  same  end,  but  we're  work- 
ing toward  it  by  such  different  means." 

Davy  flushed.  "That's  it!"  he  cried.  "You 
dreamers  are  all  so  antagonistic  to  one  another. 
That's  how  you  defeat  yourselves.  Why  can't 
you  agree  on  the  essentials  and  pass  the  non- 
essentials  by  ?" 

Creighton  smiled.  "Dreamers  have  never  been 
good  compromisers,"  he  said.  "I'm  afraid  it  is 
not  in  human  nature  that  a  man  should  be  both. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  compromisers  who  make  the 

'33 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

dreamers  worth  anything  to  the  world.  At  any 
rate,  I  don't  want  to  be  the  one  to  balk  your  pur- 
pose. And  of  course  I'd  be  interested  to  meet 
Mr.  McCurdy." 

"Supper  is  ready,"  announced  Rose,  standing 
in  the  doorway  with  a  fetching  little  apron  on. 

"And  here's  Goitie  Moiphy,"  Johnny  cried,  as 
that  wee  personage  emerged  from  some  snug  cor- 
ner, yawning  and  stretching  sleepily. 

"How,"  asked  Emily  Bristow,  glancing  up  at 
the  gilt  cage  where  a  canary  was  sleeping,  head 
under  wing,  "can  you  keep  a  cat  and  a  canary- 
bird — separate  ? " 

"We  don't  know  that  we  can,"  Rose  admitted; 
"but  we're  trying.  We  all  love  little  kitties  and 
we  love  birdies,  too.  Maybe  it's  unwise  to  try 
to  indulge  both  loves.  Maybe  it's  meant  that 
every  one  should  choose — and  abide  by  one. 
But  we're  seeing.  We'll  tell  you  all  what  we  dis- 
cover. Davy  says  we're  putting  ourselves  in  the 
way  of  much  distress.  But  I  try  to  think  we're 
learning  a  good  deal,  too.  Birdie  is  a  passive 
factor.  Anxiety  centres  in  Goitie  Moiphy.  When 
she  looks  wickedly  at  the  bird  I  have  to  remind 
myself  that  Goitie's  progenitors  have  been  looking 
wickedly  at  birds — and  mice — since  the  Garden 
of  Eden  had  an  angel  with  a  flaming  sword  set  at 
its  gate.  And  we  mustn't  be  unfair.  We  mustn't 
applaud  Goitie  for  jumping  at  a  paper  we  dangle 

134 


Emily  Insists  on  Tempting  Fate 

for  her  and  pet  her  if  she  happens  to  catch  a  ma- 
rauding mouse — then  whip  her  if  she  jumps  at 
the  bird.  I  think  that  maybe,  if  Goitie  stays  here 
and  keeps  me  in  mind  of  this  philosophy,  the  day 
may  come  when  I  shall  see,  also,  that  it  isn't  fair 
to  expect  the  laundress  to  have  prowess  enough 
to  stand  all  day,  and  every  day,  at  tubs  and  iron- 
ing-board, and  yet  delicacy  enough  to  keep  from 
rending  all  our  clothes  into  ribbons." 

"There's  a  philosopher  for  you!"  cried  Johnny. 
"And  she  has  to  do  all  the  mending." 

"  Don't  carry  your  compassion  too  far,"  Creigh- 
ton  entreated,  "or  you'll  be  pardoning  all  kinds 
of  rapacity  on  the  plea:  'for  'tis  their  nature  to.' ' 

"To  know  all  is  to  forgive  all,"  Rose  reminded. 

"I  don't  believe  that,  either!"  Creighton 
laughed. 

"  Inveterate  unbeliever ! " 

Her  further  reply  was  cut  short  by  the  ringing 
of  the  door-bell.  Davy  answered. 

"  It's  Dudley — Mr.  Prichard,"  Rose  said,  as  his 
voice  was  heard  in  the  hall. 

And  Mrs.  Bristow  thought  her  keen  eyes  told 
her  that  there  was  a  look  of  woman-consciousness 
in  Rose's  face  which  revealed  its  own  unmistaka- 
ble story. 

Prichard  was  one  of  those  dominating  personal- 
ities that,  immediately  they  enter  upon  any  scene, 
seize  the  situation  and  make  it  absolutely  their 

'35 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

own.  He  did  so  now,  though  three  of  the  four 
guests  at  table  were  strangers  to  him. 

"I'm  sorry  to  be  late,"  he  began.  But  Mrs. 
Bristow  thought  his  sorrow  was  for  their  sakes, 
not  for  his.  "I've  been  with  Emstead  all  after- 
noon— blocking  out  work — and  time's  nothing 
when  you're  doing  that." 

"What  is  it  now,  Dudley?  What  powers  that 
prey  will  soon  be  quaking  in  their  hand-sewed 
boots  ?"  Turning  to  Mrs.  Bristow,  Davy  went  on : 
"You  doubtless  recognize  Mr.  Prichard's  name  as 
that  of  our  most  redoubtable  Thunderer." 

"Of  course,"  she  murmured. 

"Thanks,  Davy,  for  omitting  to  say  *  muck- 
raker,'  "  Prichard  said.  "This  time  I  hope  it's 
going  to  be  a  bit  constructive  in  effect — not  merely 
knocking  down.  But  of  course  there'll  be  start- 
ling disclosures — so  much  has  been  suppressed. 
It's  to  be  the  history  of  labor  organization  in 
America — with  special  .emphasis  on  the  real,  un- 
written, secret  history  of  some  of  the  biggest  bat- 
tles between  labor  and  capital.  It's  immense! 
You  must  know  a  little  about  it,  Davy." 

"A  little,"  Davy  admitted  reluctantly. 

"You  have  your  father's  papers — haven't  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"I  told  Emstead  I  thought  you  had.  He's 
been  digging  into  the  subject  a  bit.  And  he  says 
that  the  newspapers  of  that  year — the  great  strike 

136 


Emily  Insists  on  Tempting  Fate 

— refer  frequently  to  the  enormous  correspond- 
ence that  poured  in  upon  your  father.'* 

"That  was  undoubtedly  destroyed,"  said  Davy. 

"Still — if  you've  no  objection — I'd  like  to  dig 
among  the  papers  and  look,"  persisted  Prichard. 

"Of  course — "  Davy  seemed  anxious  to  make 
an  end  of  the  subject. 

"It's  going  to  give  me  a  fine  chance  to  set  forth 
his  influence,"  Prichard  went  on,  looking  at  Rose. 

But  Rose's  seldom-failing  enthusiasm  was  not 
there  to  meet  his  expectation. 

"I  thought  you  people  would  be  all  up  in  the 
air  about  it,"  complained  Prichard;  "and  you're 
less  interested  than  if  I  were  going  to  write  about 
Uruguay." 

"You  must  forgive  us,  Dudley,"  Rose  entreated. 
"But  the  great  strike — as  you  call  it — means  so 
much  else  to  us  than  labor  history." 

"Yes!"  said  Davy  shortly.  And  Mrs.  Bris- 
tow,  lifting  her  eyes  and  daring  to  steal  a  look  at 
him,  caught  no  glint  of  his  manner  of  an  hour 
ago  when  he  had  spoken  to  her  of  his  father's 
death.  She  thought  she  read,  instead,  a  look  of 
agonized  apprehension. 

"Oh,  God!"  she  murmured  in  her  heart. 
"What  does  he  know?"  And,  pleading  a  head- 
ache, she  got  away  early,  Johnny  going  with  them 
as  escort. 


137 


CHAPTER  IX 

TWO    DREAMERS    MEET 

AT  a  little  before  six-thirty  one  evening  that 
week,    Rose    and    Ballard    Creighton    and 
Davy  got  off  a  Third  Avenue  "L"  train  at  Chat- 
ham Square,  and  stood  for  a  while  on  the  bridge 
before  descending  into  the  street. 

Below  them  the  Bowery:  cheap  theatres,  cheap 
dance-halls,  cheap  clothing  stores,  cheap  eating- 
places,  and  cheap  lodgings.  Tawdriness  every- 
where, yet  a  distinctive  sort  of  tawdriness  not  in 
the  least  like  that  of  other  mean  streets.  That 
distinctiveness  is  hard  to  define  but  easy  to  feel. 
The  Bowery  is  cheap,  but  it  is  prosperous — oh, 
very  prosperous!  It  is  the  Broadway  of  the  great 
East  Side.  It  sells  its  commodities  cheap,  but 
they  are  cheap  commodities,  and  the  margin  of 
profit  runs  high.  And  while  individual  expendi- 
tures may,  as  a  rule,  be  small,  they  are  great  in 
the  aggregate — on  the  Bowery.  Also,  "hot  times" 
are  not  unknown  there;  a  crook  or  a  beggar 

oo 

or  a  sailor  on  shore  leave  is  just  as  profligate 
a  spender  of  his  means  as  a  crooked  financier  or 
a  beauty-parlor  faker,  or  a  country  buyer  on 

-38 


Two  Dreamers  Meet 

Broadway.  Most  people  agree  that  Broadway  is 
a  unique  thoroughfare.  But  the  Bowery  is  start- 
lingly  like  it  except  that  it  is  on  the  nickel  basis 
instead  of  on  the  basis  of  the  dollar. 

Banks  and  pawnshops;  saloons  and  gospel 
missions;  lofts  where  the  sweaters  toil  and  "gar- 
dens" where  they  dance  and  drink;  vagrant  men 
and  playing  children;  women  of  the  street  and 
blue-bonneted  Salvationists;  country  lads  fresh 
from  home  and  crooks  of  every  degree  of  infamy 
— the  Bowery  was  at  its  best  and  worst  here. 

To  the  right,  as  they  stood  facing  south,  Rose 
and  Creighton  and  Davy  looked  off  obliquely, 
through  the  main  highway  of  Chinatown.  Gay- 
colored  lanterns  swung  on  the  balconies  of  Chinese 
restaurants;  soft-shod  Celestials  flitted  through 
the  street  in  great  numbers;  lights  were  bright 
in  the  windows  of  their  shops;  and  by  every 
alluring  device  known  to  them  the  quarter  was 
made  gay  with  a  strange,  foreign  gayety  irresisti- 
ble to  round-eyed  youth  as  well  as  satisfying  to 
hollow-eyed  vice  when  all  else  had  palled. 

Below  Chinatown  rose  the  great  cliffs  of  the 
Canyon  City.  As  if  builded  against  some  jagged 
mountain  side,  they  rose,  tier  upon  tier,  culmi- 
nating in  the  Singer  tower  which  assailed  high 
heaven  more  daringly  than  anything  had  done 
since  the  confusion  of  tongues  fell  on  Babel's 
builders. 

139 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"This,"  said  Rose,  "is  like  taking  you  up  into 
a  high  mountain  and  showing  you  the  kingdom 
that  you  want  to  enter." 

"It — it's  enough  to  frighten  any  one,"  Davy 
muttered. 

Creighton  smiled — a  smile  that  was  unafraid. 
"You  must  never  think  of  men  in  the  aggregate," 
he  said.  "Think  of  them  as  individuals  the  most 
important  of  whose  experiences  have  been  like 
your  own;  and  where  they  have  done  differently 
from  what  you  have  done,  they  have  probably  not 
done  differently  than  you  would  have  done  in 
the  same  conditions.  It's  working  on  men  in  the 
aggregate  that  makes  so  many  missions  to  man 
fail.  The  deadliest  thing  you  can  do  for  any 
man  is  to  treat  him  as  one  of  an  indistinguishable 
mass.  What  we  all  want  is  assurance  that  in  us 
are  all  the  potentialities  of  conquest.  Do  you 
know  what  are  the  two  most  elemental — and  so, 
most  universal — of  all  stories  ?  'Jack-the-Giant- 
Killer'  and  'Cinderella.'  Jack's  story  shows  how 
the  littlest  bit  of  a  boy  can  destroy  giants — which 
is  the  most  natural  desire  of  any  male  creature: 
the  desire  for  prowess.  And  Cinderella's  story 
shows  how  the  shabbiest  little  girl  may  be  a  daz- 
zling beauty  underneath  her  rags  and  able  to 
charm  a  prince — which  is  the  natural  desire  of 
any  female  creature:  the  desire  to  charm  the 
'giant-killingest'  Jack  in  sight." 

140 


Two  Dreamers  Meet 

Davy's  mind  was  busy  at  once  in  the  world  of 
books,  following  those  two  undying  stories  through 
their  course  in  literature. 

"That's  a  cinch!"  he  exclaimed  presently.  And 
they  all  laughed. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  they  turned  east,  and 
within  a  minute  or  two  they  were  at  McCurdy's 
door.  The  street  he  lived  in  was  hardly  a  stone's 
throw  from  the  Bowery,  but  as  remote  in  effect 
as  if  it  had  been  miles  away.  It  was  an  elegant 
residence  street  when  George  Washington  was 
President.  Many  of  the  houses  in  it  dated  back 
to  that  time,  or  very  nearly  to  it;  one  or  two  were 
said  to  be  even  older.  And  by  some  strange 
chance  this  street  had  survived  in  dignity  through 
all  the  changing  fortunes  of  its  neighbors.  Long 
years  after  the  residents  of  all  the  other  streets 
in  Cherry  Hill  had  moved  up  nearer  Murray  Hill, 
the  residents  of  this  street  stuck  to  their  homes 
with  a  proud  tenacity.  When  one  of  them  suc- 
cumbed he  usually  tried  to  find  for  his  house  a 
tenant  who  would  take  it  entire,  for  private  resi- 
dence use  only — this  out  of  deference  to  those 
remaining  in  the  street. 

The  newcomers  were  the  political  aristocracy 
whose  policy  demanded  that  they  live  in  the 
ward,  but  whose  spoils  made  it  possible  for  them 
to  have  the  best  the  ward  contained. 

141 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

McCurdy  had  taken  the  first  two  floors  of  one 
of  these  houses.  The  upper  floor  was  occupied 
by  two  maiden  sisters  of  an  ex-sheriff — elderly 
women — who  had  spent  all  their  lives  in  Cherry 
Hill,  although  not  by  any  means  all  in  this  part 
of  it. 

A  Chinaman  answered  their  ring  and  asked 
them  to  walk  upstairs.  McCurdy  was  at  the  top 
to  welcome  them. 

"I  told  Wing  we  would  dine  up  here,"  he  said, 
leading  them  into  his  sitting-room.  "It  is  so 
near  election  that  I'm  likely  to  have  a  good  many 
calls,  and  there's  a  restraint  about  dining  with 
half  a  dozen  political  callers  sitting  within  ear- 
shot beyond  a  portiere." 

The  second-story  front  room  was  very  large — 
the  full  width  of  the  house,  which  was  about 
thirty  feet,  and  a  good  depth,  making  it  nearly 
square. 

It  had  a  beautiful  old  white  marble  mantel  and 
an  old-fashioned  grate  such  as  New  Yorkers  got 
all  their  heat  from  until  the  comparatively  recent 
introduction  of  furnaces.  In  the  grate,  banked 
high  as  only  skilled  hands  can  do  it,  a  hard-coal 
fire  burned — large-egg  furnace  coal,  evenly  glow- 
ing, and  sending  out  a  steady  warmth  without 
snap  or  crackle. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  the  dinner-table  was 
set — spread  with  plain  satin  damask  ironed  to 

142 


Two  Dreamers  Meet 

full  satin  gloss.  It  was  distinctively  a  man's  din- 
ner-table, Rose  noted  with  appreciation.  There 
were  no  lace  doilies — there  was  not  even  a  centre- 
piece of  lace  or  embroidery  under  the  low  silver 
bowl  of  short-stemmed  roses.  There  were  can- 
dles, though,  in  exquisite  silver  candlesticks  of 
plainest  pattern;  and  red  silk  shades  with  a  min- 
imum of  fluff  or  frill  threw  down  upon  the  snowy 
cloth  and  shining  silver  a  deep  rosy  glow.  Lucius 
was  not  one  of  the  masculines  whose  idea  of 
cheerfulness  is  six  gas-jets  or  light  bulbs  going 
full  blast,  or  every  window-shade  rolled  to  the 
top  to  admit  the  glare.  He  liked  soft  lights,  it 
seemed,  but  he  liked  to  get  them  with  the  least 
possible  fussiness  of  effect. 

This  room  was  very  expressive  of  Lucius  Mc- 
Curdy.  On  the  walls  were  some  exquisite  etch- 
ings he  had  brought  from  abroad — a  couple  of 
Haig's:  Mont  St.  Michel  and  the  interior  of 
Burgos  Cathedral;  a  Pennell,  showing  a  char- 
acteristic bit  of  Paris;  a  Whistler  nocturne;  a 
dry-point  by  Helleu.  In  a  corner  by  one  of  the 
windows  was  an  ancient  desk  with  many  myste- 
rious-looking drawers  and  cubby-holes,  which 
Lucius  had  bought  in  Seville.  On  it,  among 
other  things,  was  an  inkstand  of  Edwin  Booth's, 
bid  in  by  Lucius  at  the  sale  of  Booth's  effects. 

Lucius  had  stopped  now  and  then  in  his  busy 
life  to  buy  a  picture  or  an  antique  or  to  indulge 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

a  sentiment  in  some  such  way  as  the  Booth  ink- 
pot; but  he  had  never  had  time  to  become  a  col- 
lector. His  possessions  represented  the  brief  in- 
terludes in  his  life,  not  in  any  degree  its  main 
business. 

His  silver  was  all  new  and  very  bright.  He  had 
had  no  time  to  collect  silver.  When  he  needed 
some  he  went  to  Fifth  Avenue's  best  house  and 
bought  what  he  needed  of  its  plainest  pattern. 

The  dinner  was  quite  wonderful.  Wing  was  a 
wizard  in  cookery.  He  served  a  filet  of  sole  that 
might  have  made  Marguery  envious;  only  it  was 
in  a  style  quite  all  Wing's  own,  and  not  at  all  like 
Marguery's.  And  the  capon! 

"  I  told  Wing  I  wanted  you  to  eat  some  of  his 
capon,"  Lucius  said,  when  they  exclaimed  over 
it.  "That's  right!  It  isn't  like  mere  food — it's 
an  experience" 

It  was.  So  was  the  salad  of  alligator  pear 
which  Wing  knew  how  to  dress  so  that  it  was 
ambrosial. 

There  was  no  sweet.  But  with  the  coffee  ser- 
vice, which  he  laid  before  Rose,  and  cordials, 
which  he  put  down  by  Lucius,  Wing  brought  in 
a  bowl  of  nuts — big,  paper-shell  pecans  from 
Texas — some  hot  toasted  crackers  with  a  Camem- 
bert  just  ripe  enough  to  run  like  thick  country 
cream.  Then  he  withdrew  —  vanishing  noise- 
lessly, like  some  genie  that  had  evoked  this  meal 

144 


Two  Dreamers  Meet 

from  fairyland  and  was  gone  thither  again  as 
miraculously  as  he  had  come. 

"You  don't  wear  your  ring,  do  you  ?"  said  Rose. 

"Ring!     What  ring?" 

"The  Aladdin  ring  you  rub  when  you  want 
these  wonders  to  happen." 

Lucius  smiled.  "I  keep  it  in  my  pocket/'  he 
answered.  "Want  to  see?" 

She  nodded,  and  he  put  two  fingers  in  a  vest 
pocket. 

"Don't  drop  it,"  he  begged  anxiously. 

"I  won't." 

Mysteriously  he  conveyed  it  to  her:  a  gold 
double  eagle. 

"That's  the  Aladdin  thing  to  rub!"  he  laughed. 
"All  I  have  to  do  to  command  Wing's  wizardry 
is  to  rub  one  of  those  a  little  larger — ever  so  little 
larger — than  any  other  he  can  see,  and  he  is 
mine.  Presto!  It's  easy." 

"I  quarrel  with  you!"  cried  Davy.  "That  isn't 
all.  For  first  you  must  find  Wing.  I  know  peo- 
ple with  more  gold  than  you've  got,  Lucius,  but 
they  haven't  got  your — your  perspicacity." 

McCurdy  bowed.  "Well,"  he  said,  "I  guess 
the  combination's  necessary.  That's  kind  of  a 
credo  of  mine.  Perspicacity  to  see  what  you 
want  isn't  much  use  without  power  to  get  it. 
And  power's  not  worth  much  without  perspicacity 
to  see  what  you  want." 

H5 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"But  of  the  alternatives — if  there  must  be  an 
alternative,"  Rose  hastened  to  say — "it's  better  to 
see  and  not  have  than  to  have  and  not  see;  isn't 
it?  'I'd  rather  love  what  I  can't  have  than  have 
what  I  can't  love.' ' 

"Much  rather!"  Creighton  affirmed.  "It's  the 
seeing  —  the  wanting  —  the  loving  —  that  makes 
magic  in  life." 

"How  long  do  they  last  without  ever  overtak- 
ing?" Lucius  asked. 

"That  depends.  It's  a  matter  of  education, 
I'm  beginning  to  think.  Not  of  book  learning — 
though  I  think  that  helps  a  lot — but  of  the  general 
character  of  ideas  a  man  absorbs  from  his  fel- 
lows. Where  discontent  is  in  the  air  we  breathe 
— where  being  a  man  is  forever  and  forever  lost 
sight  of  in  the  stress  of  trying  to  do  something — 
it's  hard  to  keep  on  dreaming  and  be  satisfied 
with  dreams.  We  all  make  it  hard  or  easy  for 
the  rest." 

"Davy  tells  me,"  began  Lucius,  "that  you  have 
a  big  idea  for  this  neighborhood." 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  it,"  Creighton  answered, 
"as  for  this  neighborhood  in  particular.  I  could 
name  others  uptown  where  ideality  is  quite  as 
lacking.  Only  I  thought  I'd  like  to  try  it  out 
here  first.  Not  but  that  the  uptown  hearts  are 
just  as  hungry — in  their  depths — but  the  uptown 
hungry  people  are  less  willing  to  admit  it.  Hon- 

146 


Two  Dreamers  Meet 

esty's  a  matter  of  standard.  Downtown  they 
'pinch'  pocket-books,  and  their  consciences  are 
callous  but  their  hearts  are  soft;  and  if  you  touch 
their  hearts  they  let  you  know — that's  not  against 
their  code.  But  uptown  they  manipulate  markets, 
and  their  consciences  are  callous  though  their 
hearts  are  soft;  but  if  you  touch  their  hearts  they 
don't  let  you  know — for  that  is  against  their  code. 
So  I  thought  I'd  like  to  try  here  first." 

McCurdy  was  interested.  "That's  right,"  he 
asserted.  "Down  here  you  can  be  pretty  sure 
what  they  think  of  you.  Up  there  you  never 
know." 

The  downstairs  bell  had  rung  a  minute  ago. 
Now  Wing  appeared  at  the  sitting-room  door. 

"Man  to  see,"  he  murmured  apologetically. 

"I'll  come  right  down,"  McCurdy  answered. 

"I  want  Lucius  to  show  you  that  downstairs 
region  as  we  go  out,"  Davy  said  after  McCurdy 
had  gone.  "It's  a  curiosity.  He  has  the  parlor 
fitted  up  with  consummate  tactfulness.  It  is  nice 
enough — according  to  Cherry  Hill  standards  of 
taste — to  impress  any  one  who  is  shown  into  it 
with  Mr.  McCurdy's  prosperity  and  his  respect 
for  his  callers,  but  not  too  fine  so  as  to  make 
anybody  feel  uncomfortably  inferior.  Then  he 
keeps  this  room  as  a  sort  of  sanctum,  the  intimacy 
of  which  is  yielded  only  to  the  most  faithful. 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

Sooner  or  later,  practically  every  one  gets  up  here 
— and  Lucius  seems  to  judge  unerringly  just  how 
soon  or  late  the  reward  should  come  in  each  in- 
dividual case;  then  the  proud  person  who  has 
been  called  'higher  up'  goes  swaggeringly  about 
Cherry  Hill  and  alludes  artfully  to  the  soul-warm- 
ing hospitality  of  Mr.  McCurdy's  'own  settin'- 
room.'  " 

Creighton  looked  a  bit  contemptuous  of  this, 
but  he  said  nothing. 

Rose,  however,  was  keen  to  read  the  look. 
"We're  all  children,"  she  pleaded.  "We  love  to 
think  we've  been  'especially  entreated.'  The 
wisest  mothers  know  a  lot  about  such  tender 
little  play.  It  is  magic  with  children — all  chil- 
dren." 

He  smiled  at  her  gratefully.  "I  never  had 
much  childhood,"  he  said,  "and  I  forget — some- 
times. But  I'm  sure  you're  right." 

"There's  a  kind  of  pretty  way  that  I  can  only 
call  playing  with  life — for  lack  of  a  better  expres- 
sion," she  went  on.  "I  don't  mean  evading  or 
belittling  its  seriousness,  but  translating  it  into 
something  that  is  full  of  charm.  When  I  was 
little  I  think  I  lived  almost  altogether  in  that 
inner  world  of  'pretend.'  It  was  related  to  the 
actual  world — only  it  was  so  much  more  delight- 
ful. I  did  the  things  the  actual  world  demanded; 
but  I  pretended  that  I  did  them,  not  because  I 

148 


Two  Dreamers  Meet 

was  obliged  to — as  dull  tasks — but  because  I 
chose  them  to  do.  Sometimes  when  I  had  a  par- 
ticularly hateful  thing  to  do  I  pretended  I  was  a 
queen  and  was  doing  this  thing  to  show  a  good 
example  to  my  subjects.  I  had  a  nice  sense  of 
noblesse  oblige^  it  seems.  Anyway,  I  got  through 
life  quite  charmfully  by  'playing  pretend/  And 
I  play  it  yet — a  good  deal/* 

"What  do  you  pretend  now?"  Davy  wanted  to 
know. 

But  she  blushed  and  wouldn't  tell.  To  un- 
cover the  pretence  while  you're  playing  with  it  is 
— oh!  so  fatal.  A  girl  knows! 

McCurdy  looked  serious  when  he  returned. 

"Trouble?"  asked  Davy  sympathetically. 

Lucius  nodded.  "It's  never  very  far  away  in 
Cherry  Hill." 

"How  about  Murray  Hill?"  Davy  ventured. 

"  It's  there,  too,  of  course — lots  of  it.  But  it's 
easier  to  fight  it — or  ought  to  be!  It's  trouble — 
lots  of  trouble! — when  your  scapegrace  young 
son,  on  Murray  Hill,  runs  off  with  a  soubrette. 
But  you  can  mend  it.  You  can  buy  off  the  sou- 
brette and  send  the  boy  around  the  world  on  a 
tour  of  forgetfulness,  and  when  the  boy  comes 
back  the  nicest  girl  you  know  will  grab  at  him 
just  the  same.  But  in  Cherry  Hill !" 

He  broke  off  suddenly  and  faced  them  like  one 
pleading  his  case.  "Look  here!"  he  cried,  "you 

149 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

people  don't  always  know  just  what  to  think  of 
me  because  I'm  playing  the  political  game.  But  I 
tell  you  I've  got  my  dream  just  as  you  have  yours 
— and  I'm  on  the  level  about  it.  I  don't  say  I'm 
not  ambitious — but  I  do  say  that  I'm  ambitious 
for  much  more  than  personal  success.  I  want  to 
help!  I  want  power  because  I  want  to  throw  it 
into  the  fight  for  those  who  are  powerless  to  help 
themselves. 

"Take  this  case  that's  freshest  in  my  mind: 
here's  a  man  of  fifty — the  wreck  of  what  was  once 
a  magnificent  creature  who  ought  now  to  have 
been  scarcely  past  his  prime.  Ten  years  ago 
he  was  horribly  maimed — crippled  for  life — in  an 
explosion  in  a  stone  quarry  where  he  was  work- 
ing. At  forty  he  was  done  for — down  and  out — 
and  he  had  six  children  under  fourteen  years  of 
age.  The  explosion  was  no  one's  fault,  so  he 
could  collect  no  damages.  Industrial  insurance 
would  have  helped  him — but  we  have  no  indus- 
trial insurance!  His  wife  scrubbed  offices;  his 
oldest  boy  went  onto  the  streets  selling  papers; 
and  this  wreck  of  what  had  once  been  a  powerful 
man  sat  at  home  and  tried  to  face  the  future. 
When  he  got  so  he  could  move  around  he  didn't 
sit  at  home.  He  went  out  and  drank.  Do  you 
blame  him  ?  /  don't!  It  has  been  hell  in  his 
life  for  ten  years — the  ten  that  ought  to  have  been 
his  best — his  prime.  To-night  he  comes  to  me  in 

'50 


the  grip  of  the  awfullest  thing  that  has  happened 
to  him  yet.  His  oldest  girl  has  gone  to  the  bad. 
He's  Irish — you  know  what  that  means  to  the 
Irish!  No  other  people  take  it  quite  so  hard. 
Yet  he  says  he  doesn't  blame  her!  There  isn't 
anything  she  hasn't  had  to  fight  against.  And 
finally  she's  gone.  She  doesn't  know  that  the 
worst  is  to  come — is  what  she's  flown  to.  And 
he  drags  the  wreck  that  was  once  himself  over 
here  and  sobs  out  that  he'll  go  through  hell  for 
me  if  I'll  help  him  find  his  girl." 

.  .  .  "Can  you  do  it?"  Rose  asked  softly, 
breaking  a  tense  silence  that  was  growing  un- 
bearable. 

"/  can't!  But  I  can  set  in  motion  the  powers 
that  can.  And  that's  why  I  say:  'Blessed  be 
power/  If  I  ever  get  more  power — enough  more 
power — I'm  going  to  stand  for  industrial  insur- 
ance for  one  thing!  And  for  another  I'm  going 
to  fight  the " 

He  stopped  abruptly  as  if  he  realized  that  he 
had  gone  too  far. 

They  looked  at  him  eagerly,  but  refrained  from 
questioning. 

"I  forget  caution  sometimes,"  he  said.  "With 
you  I  don't  need  it;  but  if  I  don't  learn  the  habit 
I'll  forget  myself  some  time  when  it  '11  be  fatal  to 
me.  What  I  didn't  finish  saying" — he  lowered 
his  voice  as  if  afraid  the  walls  might  hear — "was 


Children  of  ToMorrow 

this :   I'm  going  to  fight  the  exploitation  of  girls — 
of  Poverty's  daughters." 

Creighton  smiled  bitterly.  "That  determination 
would  kill  you  if  your  party  found  it  out,"  he  said. 

Lucius  winced.  "I  know  it,"  he  said.  "I 
know  my  party's  black  records.  But  I  know,  too, 
its  better  side " 

"You're  not  going  to  quote  clam-bakes  and 
baskets  of  free  coal  to  widows — the  glass  beads 
it  gives  our  modern  Indians  to  get  control  of  Man- 
hattan?" 

Rose  was  afraid  this  might  soon  lead  to  bitter- 
ness. 

"After  all,"  she  interposed  smiling,  "we're  glad 
the  Indians  didn't  keep  Manhattan!" 

Creighton  saw  her  intention  and  respected  it — 
but  took  a  parting  shot  as  he  backed  away. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  grumbled  good-humoredly; 
"sometimes  I  wish  they  had  kept  it!" 

"The  thing  for  you  two,"  reminded  Davy,  "is 
not  to  call  names,  but  to  see  where  you  can  get 
together  to  help  Cherry  Hill." 

"That's  right,  Davy,"  Lucius  replied.  "I'm 
for  any  man  who  wants  to  help  Cherry  Hill." 

Creighton  nodded  appreciation.  "I  wonder  if 
we  can — "  he  said. 

"Of  course  we  can!"  McCurdy  assured  him. 
"  I  don't  ask  you  to  work  my  way.  I'll  work  your 
way — with  you." 

152 


Two  Dreamers  Meet 

Creighton  looked  embarrassed.  There  are  few 
experiences  more  difficult  to  go  through  with  than 
receiving  the  other  man's  courteous  surrender. 

"I — "  he  began,  and  stammered.  "I  don't 
want  to  seem  to  be  the  dreamer  who  won't  yield," 
he  said — "to  come  down  here  and  ask  you  for  your 
very  potent  help,  then  decline  to  let  you  direct. 
You  know  a  lot  about  Cherry  Hill — probably 
much  more  than  I  do.  I  want  your  advice. 
Only,  it's  this  way — Do  you  believe  in  the  Chris- 
tian religion  ?" 

"Why,  certainly,"  answered  Lucius. 

"Then  you  believe  that  when  God  wanted  to 
save  the  world,  He  knew  that  it  couldn't  be  done 
through  temporal  power — that  it  must  be  done 
through  a  kinship  of  suffering  and  an  appeal  to 
men's  hearts.  He  knew  that  the  motive  power 
to  move  the  world  upward  must  come  from 
within  and  not  from  without " 

"Yes." 

Creighton  smiled.  "You  don't  believe  it!"  he 
said,  not  challengingly,  but  sadly.  "Nobody  be- 
lieves it.  And  yet  the  strangeness  of  it!  Here  am 
I,  a  poor,  groping  pagan,  clinging  to  a  belief  in 
men's  awakened  ideals  as  the  thing  to  work  for. 
And  here  are  you,  like  Archimedes,  looking  for  a 
place  to  stand  and  move  the  world  with  your  lever." 

Lucius  took  no  offence  where  it  was  so  very 
evident  none  was  intended. 

153 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"We  must  work  together,"  he  said  warmly. 
"Come,  let's  discuss  ways  and  means." 

They  fell  into  earnest  talk  about  where  Creigh- 
ton  should  begin  and  how  he  might  shape  his 
course. 

"There's  that  thing,"  said  Lucius,  nodding  in 
the  direction  of  his  superb  ^Eolian  which  filled 
one  corner  of  the  room.  "That  and  the  Vic- 
trola.  They  seem  to  be  sources  of  a  lot  of  pleas- 
ure. I've  a  small  fortune  in  discs  and  rolls — 
everything  from  'My  Wife's  Gone  to  the  Coun- 
try' and  'Has  Anybody  Here  Seen  Kelly?'  to 
Caruso  and  Sembrich  in  'La  Boheme'  and  Miche- 
lova  in  'Ave  Maria.'  I  have  informal  musicals 
here  sometimes.  If  you  want  to  try  out  your 
ideas  very  gradually,  feeling  your  way,  I  could 
ask  a  few  of  my  Cherry  Hill  friends  in  here  some 
evening  and  let  you  consult  with  them.  They'd 
have  suggestions." 

This  appealed  to  Creighton.  "By  all  means!" 
he  said.  "I'd  love  that.  They're  so  ready  to 
help — always,  in  my  experience.  The  man  with 
a  job  is  quick  to  help  the  man  without  a  job. 
The  man  with  a  grip  on  life  is  ever  ready  to  'hold 
on  for  two'  while  some  poor  floundering  chap 
gets  on  his  legs  again.  We  want  them!  We 
need  them!  We  can't  go  far  unless  they'll  help. 
And  helping — of  course — will  strengthen  them. 
I  saw  a  street  incident  one  day.  It  was  a  glori- 


Two  Dreamers  Meet 

ous  day  about  two  weeks  ago — mid-October — sun- 
shine goldenest  of  the  year — it  got  into  your  veins 
and  made  you  glad  to  be  alive.  I  was  walking 
along  Fifth  Avenue  at  noon  hour.  The  lofts  had 
emptied  their  throngs  into  the  street.  Everybody 
seemed  greedy  for  that  wine-sap  air.  I  can't 
describe  it — but  that  was  it — the  love  of  life — 
everywhere.  Walking  ahead  of  me,  going  north, 
as  I  got  to  Twentieth  Street  was  a  young  man 
carrying  a  light  cane.  He  stopped  at  the  curb 
tapping — feeling  his  way.  Then  I  heard  him 
speak — a  voice  that  would  break  your  heart — 
no  self-pity,  no  anything — just  acceptance.  'Will 
somebody  please  help  me  across?'  he  said.  Be- 
fore I  could  take  his  elbow  another  had  responded. 
I  got  a  good  look  at  them  as  they  threaded  their 
way  across.  The  young  man  was  well  dressed, 
evidently  well-to-do.  The  man  who  was  helping 
him  was  middle-aged,  shabby,  evidently  ill-to-do. 
His  manner  was  not  gracious.  The  moment  they 
reached  the  opposite  curb  he  dropped  his  guiding 
touch  on  the  blind  man's  shoulder.  If  he  acknowl- 
edged the  'Thank  you,'  I  did  not  hear  it.  He 
was  sullen — that  shabby  man.  Alone  in  all  the 
streetful  he  seemed  unwarmed  by  that  love  of 
life  which  the  gold  sunshine  kindled.  At  Twenty- 
first  Street  I  watched.  He  responded  again  to 
the  pathetic  request.  When  that  street  was 
crossed  he  did  not  relinquish  his  hold.  The 

'55 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

blocks  are  short,  you  know,  and  Twenty-second 
is  a  mean  crossing.  .  .  .  When  I  left  them  at 
Twenty-third  Street  they  had  rounded  the  corner 
and  were  going  toward  Sixth  Avenue  chatting 
pleasantly.  The  older  man's  walk  had  lost  its 
sullen  slouch.  .  .  .  No  one  else  in  all  that  throng, 
I  reflected,  could  have  done  for  that  discouraged 
man  what  the  blind  man  did  for  him  by  needing 
him.  That's  it!  You  grip  any  man  in  a  way 
that  tells  him  unmistakably  you  need  him  and 
you've — you've  done  about  the  best  for  him  that 
you  can  do." 

Creighton  told  the  little  incident  most  beauti- 
fully. His  fine  voice,  his  actor's  art,  gave  him 
expression  for  his  deep  feeling  in  a  degree  that 
moved  his  hearers  profoundly. 

Lucius  laid  a  hand  on  Creighton's  shoulder. 
It  rested  there  expressively  for  a  moment  before 
he  trusted  himself  to  speak. 

"We  need  you — all  right,"  he  said  when  he 
could  say  anything. 

Rose,  being  a  woman,  dared  to  wipe  her  tears 
away. 

"The — the  thing  you  make  me  see,"  she  said, 
"  is — overwhelming.  I  love  your  crusade  with  my 
whole  soul!  I'm  so  glad  I  live  to-day.  I'd  rather 
watch  your  fight  and  such  as  yours  than  any  the 
world  has  ever  seen." 

"Truly?"  asked  Lucius. 


Two  Dreamers  Meet 

"Truly!  I'd  rather  know  you  men  than  Rich- 
ard of  the  Lion  Heart  and  the  men  like  him. 
They  went  crusading  to  recover  the  Holy  Sepul- 
chre where  the  body  of  Christ  had  lain.  You  go 
crusading  to  recover  His  Spirit  in  men." 

"We  don't  call  it  that,"  murmured  Creighton. 

"It  doesn't  matter  what  you  call  it!"  she  cried. 
"Call  it  what  you  will — it  is  the  biggest  impulse 
that  has  moved  the  men  of  any  age.  And  I'm 
glad  I'm  at  the  roadside  to  see  you  go  marching 
by." 


'57 


CHAPTER  X 

CATHERINE    AND   THE    CREHORES 

WHEN  Goitie  Moiphy  had  been  about  a 
week  in  her  new  home  she  was  visited  one 
afternoon  by  her  erstwhile  mistress. 

Rose's  maid  of  all  work  answered  the  ring  at 
the  front  door  and  confronted  a  young  person 
who,  without  preliminaries  of  any  sort,  thrust  a 
gentleman's  card  at  her.  It  was  Johnny's  card. 

"Does  he  live  here  ?"  the  young  person  asked. 

"He  does;   but  he's  not  at  home." 

"  Have  youse  got  a  cat  named  Goitie  Moiphy  ? " 

"Yes." 

"Well,  she  uster  be  mine,  an*  he  tol'  me  I  could 
come  an'  see  'er  whenever  I  wanted  to." 

The  servant  hesitated.  "Wait  a  minute,"  she 
said,  "and  I'll  ask  Miss  Rose." 

In  less  than  a  minute  Miss  Rose  was  at  the 
door. 

"Why,  howdy-do,  Goitie  Moiphy's  ma,"  she 
said.  "Come  right  in,  won't  you?  I  think 
Goitie's  asleep  this  moment.  But  she'll  be  glad 
enough  to  wake  up  and  see  you." 


Catherine  and  the  Crehores 

When  they  had  seated  themselves  in  the  living- 
room  they  regarded  each  other  with  frank  in- 
terest. 

"My  name's  Innes,"  volunteered  Rose,  "Miss 
Rose  Innes.  What's  yours?" 

"Crehore,"  said  the  young  person — who  was 
about  ten — "Miss  Mollie  Crehore." 

"That's  a  pretty  name." 

"I  think  Rose  is  prettier." 

"Do  you  ?    Well,  let's  change!" 

Mollie  looked  at  her.  You  couldn't  always 
tell  what  people  meant  until  you  saw  the  way 
they  looked.  If  they  was  fooling  you,  you  could 
kind  o'  tell  it  from  their  eyes,  or  else  their  mouths 
would  twitch  in  the  corners  and  you'd  know  that 
they  was  giving  you  the  laugh. 

Rose's  eyes  betrayed  no  grown-up  condescen- 
sion and  the  corners  of  her  mouth  behaved  straight- 
forwardly. 

"All  right,"  agreed  Mollie;  "let's." 

The  change  of  names  effected  a  change  of  rela- 
tions. Mollie  "put  on"  a  good  deal  in  her  effort 
to  act  as  she  thought  "Rose"  should  and  Rose 
found  a  charming  irresponsibility  about  being 
"Mollie." 

Goitie  Moiphy,  sad  to  relate,  evinced  no  in- 
terest in  being  called  upon  even  by  her  late  relative. 
She  yawned  prodigiously  when  waked,  stuck  her 
front  claws  deep  in  the  cushion  of  the  window- 

159 


Children  of  ToMorrow 

seat,  stretched  herself  almost  alarmingly,  then 
curled  up  and  went  back  to  sleep. 

The  caller,  however,  was  not  bitterly  disap- 
pointed. 

"She's  got  it  nice  here — Goitie  has,"  she  ob- 
served, looking  around.  And  that  seemed  to 
satisfy  her;  whether  because  her  devotion  was 
supremely  unselfish  or  because  her  maternal  in- 
stincts were  less  strong  than  her  love  of  advent- 
ure, one  might  guess  but  not  know. 

That  the  call  she  was  making  was  giving  her 
extreme  pleasure  there  could  be  no  doubt. 

"Is  that,"  she  inquired,  gazing  intently  up  at 
the  Cavalier,  "the  man  I  gave  'er  to?'* 

She  seemed  regretful  to  learn  that  it  was  not. 

"I  thought  it  was  his  pitcher  from  a  masquer- 
ade," she  said.  "That's  a  swell  cos/oom,  all 
right!" 

"  Who  else  lives  here  ? "  she  asked  presently. 

"  My  other  brother,"  Rose  told  her. 

"Is  that  him?"  She  pointed  to  the  portrait  of 
Lyman  Innes. 

"No;   that  is  my  father.     He  is  dead." 

"And  yer  ma?" 

"  She's  dead,  too.  There  are  just  the  three  of  us." 

"My  ma's  dead.     But  I  got  a  step." 

"A  step?" 

"Step-mother.  They're  no  good.  My  pa  made 
a  mistake.  He  says  so  himself.  But  he  had  four 

1 60 


Catherine  and  the  Crehores 

kids  an'  didn*  know  what  t'  do.  An*  she  was  kind 
o'  sore  on  workin*  out — so  she  took  him.  They're 
both  sore  now.  It's  somethin'  fierce!" 

Evidently  there  were  no  pretenses  where  Mollie 
lived. 

She  went  into  Davy's  den.  "Gee!"  was  her 
comment,  "is  this  a  libarary?" 

Rose  nodded. 

"There's  a  girl  to  our  house,"  Mollie  went  on, 
"who's  read  as  many  books  as  this,  I  bet  ye. 
She's  always  readin'  when  she  ain't  workin'.  She 
gets  the  books  out  of  a  libarary." 

Then  Rose  understood  that  Mollie  took  this  for 
a  "loan  collection";  that  she  had  never  known 
any  one  to  own  for  personal  purpose  more  than  a 
stray  book  or  two  and  could  only  conclude  that 
so  many  volumes  argued  an  institution.  Rose 
explained  that  the  books  all  belonged  to  her 
brother. 

That  was  all  that  was  said  about  books  on  the  oc- 
casion of  this  visit.  But  Mollie  called  soon  again. 

"Say!"  she  remarked,  "I  was  tellin*  that  girl 
in  our  house  what  a  lot  o'  books  youse  have,  an' 
it  made  her  sore.  She  says  so  many  people  have 
books  an'  don't  read  'em,  an*  so  many  more  is 
crazy  fer  'em  an'  can't  git  'em." 

This  interested  Rose.  What  Mollie  had  first 
said  about  a  girl  who  was  "  always  readin' "  she 
had  given  no  second  thought  to,  taking  for  granted 

161 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

an  average  tenement  girl's  taste  for  cheap  ro- 
mance. But  this  speech  that  the  child  repeated 
was  bitter;  it  smacked  of  a  book  hunger  not  that 
of  a  novel-reader  who  is  usually  content  to  devour 
a  story  and  hurry  on  to  the  next,  but  that  of  a 
book-lover  who  craves  to  have  ever  at  his  elbow 
the  books  he  has  made  friends  with. 

"What  is  the  girl's  name  ?"  she  asked. 

"Cath'rine  Krakopfsky.     She's  a  Russian." 

Nothing  more  deeply  mystifies  the  child  mind 
than  the  ability  of  adults  to  infer  nationality  from 
a  name.  Rose  remembered  this,  and  instead  of 
remarking:  "Naturally — with  that  name,"  she 
said  "Oh!"  as  if  the  explanation  had  been  quite 
necessary. 

"She  works  in  a  tailor-shop,"  Mollie  went  on. 
"But  she's  awful  smart.  Her  sister's  name  is 
queer — it's  Sonia.  They  ain't  got  no  folks. 
Their  ma  was  killed  in  Russia;  an'  their  pa  killed 
hisself.  It's  fierce  in  Russia!" 

"Yes?" 

"You  bet!" 

"You  know  these  girls  pretty  well." 

''They  rent  off  of  us — our  hall  room.  But  they 
don't  eat  by  us.  Cath'rine's  good  to  me.  When 
my  step-mother  beats  me,  she  takes  my  part. 
Sonia  don't  care— she's  all  fer  clo'es  an*  a  good 
time.  But  Cath'rine  treats  me  awful  good.  She 
says  she's  fer  any  one  that's  got  it  hard." 

162 


Catherine  and  the  Crehores 

Rose's  heart  had  gone  out  to  Catherine. 

"Will  you  tell  her  to-night,"  she  asked  Mollie, 
"that  we  are  the  kind  of  people  that  love  books, 
too  ?  And  will  you  say  that  we  love  them  so  very 
much  that  we  are  always  glad  to  share  them  ?" 

"Sure." 

"I  don't  suppose  she'd  come  up  here  with  you 
some  time — on  a  Sunday,  say?" 

Mollie  didn't  think  she  would.  She  didn't 
know  why;  but  that  was  her  guess. 

"  But  if  I  returned  your  call  on  a  Sunday  morn- 
ing, for  instance,  perhaps  I'd  see  her?" 

"Yeh.  But  don't  come  too  early.  Because 
she  don't  git  up  till  seven,  Sundays,  an*  then  she 
does  her  washin'  an'  ironin'  by  our  kitchen  stove." 

After  Mollie  was  gone  Rose  found  herself 
haunted  by  the  thought  of  that  Russian  girl  whose 
life  had  seen  so  much  tragedy;  who  toiled  in  a 
tailor-shop;  lay  abed  till  seven  on  Sundays;  did 
her  own  laundry  work;  read  many  books,  hun- 
grily; was  kind  to  an  ill-treated  child;  and,  doubt- 
less, had  her  own  anguished  misgivings  over  a  sis- 
ter who  was  "all  for  clo'es  an'  a  good  time." 

How  adequately  the  child  had  reflected  her! 
Rose  felt  better  acquainted  with  Catherine  Kra- 
kopfsky  than  with  many  a  person  she  had  met  and 
talked  with  a  score  of  times. 

Davy  was  interested  when  she  told  him.  He 
wanted  to  go  with  her  when  she  called,  but  she 

163 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

was  afraid  that  "two  might  seem  like  a  delega- 
tion." 

"  If  she  likes  me  I'll  get  her  to  come  up  here," 
she  said. 

"If  she  likes  you!"  cried  Davy,  who  could  not 
conceive  any  other  possibility. 

"She  may  not,"  Rose  went  on.  "Things  are 
hard  for  her.  Maybe  she'll  think  I'm  too  favored 
of  fortune.  I'm  not  sure  that  if  I  worked  in  a 
tailor-shop — a  sweat-shop,  probably — and  lived 
in  a  tenement  hall  room,  and  knew  my  soul  was 
big — in  tune  with  big  ideas — that  I'd  like  a  girl 
who  had  nothing  to  do  in  the  world  but  enjoy  her- 
self among  people  of  charm  and  intelligence." 

"  Rosie,"  said  Davy  seriously,  and  ignoring  what 
Catherine  Krakopfsky  might  think  or  feel,  "do 
you  ever  feel  as  if  you  had  nothing  to  do  in  the 
world?" 

Rose  nodded  as  if  unwilling  to  trust  herself  to 
speech. 

Davy  gave  her  one  look  as  if  he  were  wishing  for 
the  eloquence  that  was  not  in  him.  Then  he  said : 

"Oh,  Rosie,  dear!" 

Davy  was  sitting  in  his  father's  chair  in  the  little 
den.  Rose  perched  on  the  arm  of  it  and  laid  her 
soft  cheek  against  his  hair. 

"I  saw  Bruce  Norbury  to-day,"  he  said. 

Rose  thought  he  was  trying  to  change  the  pain- 
ful subject. 

164 


Catherine  and  the  Crehores 

"  Did  you  ? "  she  answered.     "  Where  ? " 

"At  The  Players,  at  lunch.    He  asked  for  you." 

She  smiled  and  tweaked  his  ear. 

"What  would  you  do,  Davy,  to  any  one  who 
met  you  and  did  not  ask  for  me  ?  What  deed  of 
violence  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Davy  answered.  "I've  never 
had  to  think  about  it." 

"It's  your  intimidating  manner,"  she  teased. 

Davy  ignored  this.  "Bruce  and  I  sat  there 
talking  long  after  the  other  fellows  had  gone,"  he 
went  on.  "  He's  no  end  of  a  fine  fellow." 

"I  always  liked  him,"  she  agreed.  "Where  has 
he  been  this  long  while  ? " 

"Abroad;  he  saw  a  lot  of  the  people  we  know 
over  there." 

"Any  specially  good  news  of  anybody?" 

"Well,  not  any  one  thing  more  startling  than 
all  the  rest.  But  he  had  pleasant  news  of  almost 
everybody." 

"That's  fine!    As  if  favors  were  divided." 

"He  saw  Schuyler  Monteith's  portrait  of  you 
in  Dresden.  It  was  in  the  exhibition." 

"Good!" 

"People  were  praising  it  very  highly,  he  said." 

"I'm  so  glad  for  Schuyler." 

"And  he  met  Forquarson  in  Capri." 

"What  was  he  doing?" 

"Finishing  a  new  novel.     He  read  parts  of  it 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

to  Bruce.  Bruce  thought  it  was  big  stuff — much 
the  biggest  Forquarson  has  done." 

"Italian  novel  ?" 

"Naples  and  Sorrento  and  Capri  for  setting; 
but  chiefly  English  and  American  characters. 
It's  kind  of  laid  among  the  art  colony  there — 
'The  Sojourners'  is  the  title — and  there's  a  girl 
in  it — the  heroine — that  Bruce  told  Forquarson 
reminded  him  of  you.  Forquarson  said  he  was 
glad  she  did;  for  you  had  inspired  her." 

"Not  really?"   ' 

"  Bruce  told  me,"  Davy  went  on,  as  if  he  had 
not  heard  her  exclamation,  "that  there  wasn't 
anybody  of  his  acquaintance  who  was  so  often 
and  so  eagerly  inquired  after  as  you  were.  He  said 
he  had  always  been  proud  to  know  you,  but  that 
lately  he  had  been  quite  puffed  up  about  it." 

"Davy,"  said  Rose  chidingly,  "you're  fabri- 
cating. You  know  I  won't  ask  Bruce  if  it's  so 
and  you're  taking  a  long  chance — to  flatter  and 
console  me." 

"Rose,"  reminded  Davy,  "I'm  not  a  fabricator. 
My  imagination  won't  let  me  be — whatever  my 
inclinations.  I  begin  to  suspect  that  George 
Washington  may  have  been  like  me.  He  couldn't 
tell  a  lie  because  he  couldn't  think  of  anything  to 
say." 

Rose  laughed.  "I  miss  the  way  we  used  to 
do  when  we  were  children:  'Honest  Injun'  and 

166 


Catherine  and  the  Crehores 

'Cross  my  heart  an*  hope  to  die/  It  was  so  con- 
venient; and  as  it  was  quite  in  the  social  code, 
nobody  was  offended  when  you  asked  him  to 
swear  he  was  telling  the  truth." 

"Children  'romance'  so  much  they  don't  ex- 
pect to  be  taken  seriously  except  on  oath,"  Davy 
said. 

"I  don't  believe  grown  people  do  either,"  Rose 
went  on.  "And  yet  you  can't  ask  them  'Honest 
Injun?'  They  think  you  ought  to  know  when 
they  expect  to  be  believed  and  when  they  don't. 
And  I'm  such  a  ninny  I  can't  tell  half  the  time." 

"When  you  call  yourself  a  'ninny/'  Davy 
questioned,  "of  course  you  don't  expect  any  one 
to  think  you  mean  it — 'Honest  Injun'?" 

"Of  course  I  do!"  she  protested  earnestly. 

"Then,  Rose,"  said  Davy  solemnly,  "there  is 
something  the  matter  with  your  intelligence!" 

Mollie  lived  on  East  Twenty-fourth  Street. 
When  Rose  reached  Madison  Square  on  Sunday 
morning,  the  church-going  folk  were  on  their  way 
to  eleven-o'clock  service.  The  beautiful  Byzantine 
church  at  the  corner  of  East  Twenty-fourth  Street 
— Stanford  White's  last  work — where  Dr.  Park- 
hurst's  congregation  worships,  was  filling  rapidly. 
As  she  passed  the  corner  of  Fourth  Avenue  she 
encountered  numbers  of  soberly  but  handsomely 
clad,  sedate  persons  wending  their  respectful  ways 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

to  the  several  houses  of  worship  on  Fourth  Avenue 
in  that  neighborhood.  Church  bells  tolled;  there 
was  almost  no  traffic  on  these  streets  that  on 
week-days  see  a  constant  congestion  of  it.  A 
Sabbath-day  peace  was  over  everything.  This  is 
an  interesting,  a  suggestive  bit  of  that  strange 
composite  we  call  New  York.  Here  stands  the 
Flatiron  Building — ten  years  ago  a  world's  won- 
der; now  dwarfed  into  insignificance  by  the  awe- 
inspiring  Metropolitan  tower.  There,  where  the 
old  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel  used  to  be — centre  of 
New  York's  transient  elegance — a  monster  office 
building  looms.  Two  sides  of  Madison  Square 
have  yielded  entirely  to  business;  the  other  sides 
are  half-yielded.  Of  what  was  once  an  aristo- 
cratic residence  neighborhood  little  remains  ex- 
cept a  few  old  dwellings  most  of  which  are  now 
converted  to  semi-business  purposes,  and  a  few 
churches  whose  congregations  are  made  up  partly 
of  transients  and  partly  of  old  members  whose 
sentiment  brings  them  back  on  Sundays  to  wor- 
ship God  in  a  neighborhood  they  have  long  since 
abandoned  to  the  Captains  of  Mammon.  One 
gets  among  the  people  who  go  back  on  Sunday 
mornings  from  mid-October  to  mid-May  to  wor- 
ship in  neighborhoods  where  they  once  had  their 
homes,  glimpses  of  an  element  that  has  been  enor- 
mously potent  in  the  history  of  New  York.  They 
do  not  figure  in  the  newspapers;  they  are  not 

168 


Catherine  and  the  Crehores 

frequently  encountered  by  the  hasty  foreigner 
who  comes  over  here  to  write  "impressions." 
But  they  have  been  sturdy  conservators.  Save 
for  them  and  for  their  like  New  York  would 
scarcely  be  an  American  city  in  any  sense.  They 
are  dying  off;  their  children  are  not  held  by  the 
same  loyalties.  .  .  .  There  will  be  conservative 
New  Yorkers  forty  years  hence.  But  one  won- 
ders where  their  conservatism  will  express  it- 
self. 

Five  minutes'  walk  east  in  Twenty-fourth 
Street  gives  an  observant  person  plenty  to.  think 
about.  The  social  down-grade  is  sharp.  Past 
Stanford  White's  Byzantine  church  and  the  tow- 
ering bulk  of  the  Metropolitan  Life  Building,  one 
soon  comes  upon  the  region  of  boarding-houses — 
quite  good  boarding-houses,  pretty  good  board- 
ing houses,  fairly  good  boarding-houses — then 
(going  eastward  all  the  time)  frankly  dingy  board- 
ing houses.  Then  the  tenements  begin  and  the 
squalor  deepens  as  one  approaches  the  river  and 
the  region  terrorized  by  what  is  known  in  criminal 
records  as  "the  gas-house  gang."  Twenty-fourth 
Street  is  a  little  differentiated  from  some  of  its 
neighbors  by  the  presence  of  many  stables  and  of 
a  huge  ice-cream  factory. 

All  this  world  that  is  epitomized  on  Twenty- 
fourth  Street  east  of  Fourth  Avenue  is  typical 
New  York.  But  it  knows  as  little  as  it  is  known 

169 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

by  that  other  typical  New  York  which  comes 
to  worship  Sunday  mornings  in  the  environs  of 
Madison  Square;  as  little  as  either  of  them  knows 
or  is  known  by  that  other  typical  New  York 
which  begins  with  a  decided  Tenderloin  flavor 
where  Twenty-fourth  Street  runs  west  from  the 
square  and  proceeds  through  disreputable  taw- 
driness  to  shabby  respectability,  and  so  on  to  the 
other  river  at  the  city's  western  side. 

The  riddle  of  the  city  was  as  ever-present  to 
Rose  as  to  the  Arab  is  the  riddle  of  the  Sphinx. 

Mollie  lived  where  Twenty-fourth  Street  ceases 
to  be  merely  dingy  and  is  just  beginning  to  be- 
come squalid.  She  was  playing  on  the  sidewalk 
and  watching  for  Rose;  so  she  saw  her  from  a 
distance  and  ran  to  give  her  greeting. 

"Howdy-do,  Rose!"  Miss  Innes  said.  (When 
Mollie  came  to  her  house  they  still  "traded 
names"  and  revelled  in  the  "different"  feeling 
the  change  gave  them.) 

"I'm  Mollie  here"  the  young  hostess  answered. 
"Rose  don't  ft." 

"Are  there  no  Rosies  in  your  street?" 

"Oh,  plenty!  But  they're  Sheenies — and  it 
ain't  the  same.  Besides,  she'd  kid  me  awful." 

"Who  would?" 

"My  step " 

"Oh!"  said  Rose,  as  if  hurt  that  Mollie  could 
have  thought  such  a  thing,  "I  would  never  have 

170 


Catherine  and  the  Crehores 

mentioned  it  when  any  one  was  around  but  just 
ourselves." 

Mollie  looked  reassured.  "Some  people  don't 
ever  understand,"  she  said.  "  But  Catherine  does. 
I  told  her;  and  she  said  she  b'leeved  she  liked 
you." 

She  led  the  way  and  Rose  followed.  The 
house,  like  most  of  its  neighbors,  had  once  been 
a  residence  of  the  well-to-do.  Perhaps  in  the 
heyday  of  its  gentility  it  had  rented  for  fifty  dol- 
lars a  month.  Its  rent-roll  now  must  be  at  least 
a  hundred  dollars.  The  Crehores  had  the  second- 
floor  front  rooms.  What  had  once  been  the  big 
bedroom  with  an  alcove — "father's  and  mother's 
room"  in  the  by-gone  days  of  one-family  tenancy 
— was  now  two  rooms.  The  alcove  was  rented 
to  the  Krakopfskys  and  the  main  part  was  the 
Crehore's  parlor  by  day  and  sleeping-apartment 
of  the  four  children  by  night.  Where  there  had 
been  a  huge  press  for  clothes  and  linen  and  what- 
not, there  was  now  a  tiny,  unventilated  bedroom 
where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crehore  slept.  Back  of  it 
was  a  room  where,  in  other  days,  the  smallest 
children  probably  slept,  close  by  their  mother  so 
she  could  hear  them  call.  This  was  a  kitchen 
now.  There  were  two  other  rooms  on  the  floor 
— a  back  hall  room  and  a  large  back  room;  each 
was  separately  sublet. 

Everything  about  the  Crehores  was  on  the  bor- 
171 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

der-land  between  shabbiness  and  squalor.  They 
had,  for  instance,  a  "parlor  suit."  It  had  been 
tawdry  to  begin  with,  then  had  grown  shabby; 
it  was  now  past  all  pleasingness  even  to  the  most 
perverted  taste;  but  it  is  something  a  degree  this 
side  of  squalor  to  have  a  parlor  suit  of  any  kind. 
They  had  a  carpet  on  the  parlor  floor  that  kept 
excellent  company  with  the  furniture.  Their 
aesthetic  efforts  helped  to  tell  the  story:  they  had 
a  gilded  plaster  horse,  with  one  foot  uplifted;  a 
large  box  covered  with  small  shells  and  with  a 
mirror  in  the  top  of  it;  a  picture  of  St.  Anthony; 
a  pink  plate — undoubtedly  a  "premium";  and  a 
celluloid  photograph  album  in  a  plush  and  nickel 
frame. 

Mr.  Crehore  had  some  kind  of  a  semi-mysteri- 
ous job  "off  the  City" — the  reward,  no  doubt,  of 
a  meagre  political  influence.  From  certain  things 
that  transpired  it  seemed  that  this  was  not  an 
arduous  job — and  that  it  would  have  been  a  much 
better  job  for  Mr.  Crehore  had  it  entailed  a  little 
more  labor  of  another  sort  than  hanging  about 
saloons.  He  was  a  rather  good-looking  man  of 
not  more  than  thirty-five;  sandy-complexioned, 
blue-eyed,  solidly  built.  His  wife  was  not  much 
younger  than  he.  She  had  been  self-supporting 
since  she  was  a  child.  In  a  season  of  more  than 
ordinary  ill-luck  she  had  grown  more  than  ordi- 
narily tired  of  self-dependence;  Crehore  had 

172 


Catherine  and  the  Crehores 

offered  her  a  home — perhaps  his  need  of  a 
housekeeper,  fired  by  his  Irish  blood,  made  him 
an  ardent  wooer — and  she  had  accepted  him.  In 
a  month  she  was  sorry.  In  two  months  she  had 
begun  to  be,  as  Mollie  put  it,  "sore."  She  con- 
stantly upbraided  Crehore  for  what  he  had 
brought  her  to.  And  yet,  somehow,  she  did  not 
leave.  Crehore  was  not  the  kind  of  man  a 
woman  leaves.  No  one  will  ever  understand  the 
psychology  of  such  things,  perhaps.  But  there  are 
Bill  Sykeses  in  all  walks  of  life  whose  very  blows 
inspire  loyalty.  Crehore  was  a  wife-beater;  but 
he  was  one  of  the  kind  of  men  whom  their  women 
do  not  leave. 

In  this  atmosphere  but  not  of  it  Rose  found 
Catherine  Krakopfsky. 

Mollie  as  a  go-between  had  been  no  less  suc- 
cessful with  Catherine  than  with  Rose.  She  had 
reflected  faithfully  the  little  she  knew  of  her  recent 
acquaintance,  and  the  good  deal  more  that  her 
childish  intuitions  perceived. 

Catherine  was  very  much  on  the  defensive, 
fearing  patronage.  But  in  Rose's  presence  no 
one  could  feel  that  way  for  long.  Her  quick 
sympathy  put  her  at  once  in  Catherine's  place, 
and  her  natural  timidity  was  made  even  greater 
by  her  fear  of  seeming  to  intrude. 

The  Crehores  were  not  impressed  with  Rose. 
After  what  Mollie  had  told  them,  they  had  ex- 

173 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

pected  some  one  much  more  consciously  and 
evidently  superior.  Mrs.  Crehore  even  had  en- 
tertained visions  of  Mollie  being  adopted  by  a 
rich  lady — and  taken  out  of  her  way. 

Rose  felt  that  she  had  failed  to  impress  them, 
and  she  was  sorry — for  Mollie' s  sake.  But  she 
felt,  too,  that  Catherine  liked  her,  and  that  was 
more  important.  For  the  Crehores  were  not  peo- 
ple she  could  do  anything  for.  No  treasure-house 
to  which  she  held  the  key  contained  anything 
that  they  would  take  if  they  were  so  privileged. 
It  must  be  enough  to  keep  open  for  Mollie  the 
door  of  another  world  where  she  alone  of  all 
her  kindred  seemed  to  have  citizenship.  But  for 
Catherine ! 

Rose's  heart  overflowed  with  gratefulness  when 
she  thought  how  many  doors  to  delight  would 
open  at  her  knock  to  admit  Catherine. 

Not  one  to  delay,  was  Rose.  She  asked  the 
Russian  girl  to  come  that  afternoon  and  see  her. 

"My  brother  Davy  will  be  so  happy  showing 
you  his  books,"  she  said. 

"I  haven't  any  clothes  to  make  calls  in,"  Cath- 
erine replied. 

Rose's  face  showed  pain  and  disappointment. 

"I  hoped  you'd  know  we'd  never  think  of  that," 
she  said. 

Then  Catherine  was  ashamed.  "  I'll  come,"  she 
promised,  and  squeezed  the  little  hand  she  held. 

174 


Catherine  and  the  Crehores 

She  came  early.  Only  Davy  and  Rose  were 
there. 

"That's  Lyman  Innes,"  she  said  when  she  saw 
his  portrait.  "Are  you  related  to  him?" 

"We  are  his  children,"  answered  Rose. 

"You  ought  to  be  proud,"  said  Catherine  Kra- 
kopfsky. 

"You  know  about  him?"  asked  Davy — mean- 
ing, as  was  evident,  not  his  governorship  but  the 
use  he  made  of  it. 

"One  does  not  read  American  economics  and 
not  know,"  she  replied. 

That  was  all  it  took  to  make  her  at  home  there. 

And  when,  later  on,  Ansel  Rodman  came  in, 
and  Ballard  Creighton  and  Lucius  McCurdy, 
she  did  not  remember  that  she  had  ever  been 
strange.  There  was  such  community  of  interests 
here  as  made  her  feel  that  she  had  come  at  last 
among  her  own. 

There  was  much  talk  of  Creighton's  expe- 
riment and  what  had  been  said  about  it  at 
the  "smoker"  in  McCurdy's  sitting-room  last 
night. 

"It's  hard  to  keep  ideals  over  there,"  she  said, 
indicating  with  a  nod  the  section  of  the  city  they 
had  been  talking  about.  "But  if  one  can  only 
learn  to  do  it  it  makes  political  economy  so  simple 
— for  then  every  man's  a  king.  What  do  you 
think  a  sweat-shop  will  be  to  me  to-morrow — or 

175 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

the  Crehore's  flat  hideous  with  quarrelling  to- 
night ?  For  I  have  been  where  thoughts  are 
patents  of  nobility  and  where  earnestness  to  help 
makes  of  us  all  one  kin." 


176 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    SWORD    FALLS 

ROSE  and  Davy  breakfasted  together  at  eight 
o'clock  each  morning;  Johnny  did  not  rise 
till  ten. 

The  morning  after  Catherine's  visit  their  talk 
was  all  about  her  for  a  while. 

"I  can't  see,"  said  Rose,  "why  a  girl  with  an 
intellect  like  hers  should  work  in  a  sweat-shop. 
Why  couldn't  she  teach  ? " 

"Teach  what?" 

"Teach  school." 

Davy  smiled  grimly.  "She's  a  nihilist,"  he 
reminded;  "that's  one  reason.  Another  is  that 
she  speaks  perfect  English  but  with  a  strong 
accent." 

"Then,  couldn't  she  teach  languages  ?  She's  a 
fine  linguist — like  most  Russians  of  education." 

Davy  shook  his  head.  "The  woods  are  full 
of  good  linguists,  dear;  and  speaking  languages 
doesn't  imply  the  ability  to  teach  others  to  speak 
them.  In  the  labor  market,  tailoring  brings  more 
than  translating  or  any  other  use  of  foreign  tongues 
can  bring." 

177 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"But  there  must  be  other  things  she  could  do 
— ways  to  use  her  brain!" 

"There  probably  are  some  other  things,  dear; 
we'll  try  to  help  her  find  one  of  them.  But  a 
girl  in  Catherine's  position  may  be  ever  so  capable, 
yet  not  be  able  to  find  the  place  for  her  capabili- 
ties. For  one  thing,  she  hasn't  had  much  time 
to  look;  she's  had  to  do  what  she  could  get  to  do 
and  to  keep  hard  at  it — to  live.  For  another 
thing,  she  hasn't  had  any  friends.  And  everybody 
needs  friends.  It's  all  very  well  to  say  that  merit 
makes  its  own  way  and  nobody  can  keep  it  down. 
But  that's  not  even  a  half-truth.  If  merit  gets  a 
chance  it  makes  a  few  friends,  and  the  friends  be- 
gin to  praise  it  until  they  get  a  dozen  people  waked 
up  to  this  particular  merit;  then  that  dozen 
makes  a  gross;  and  so  on.  Most  people  are 
sheep;  they  don't  have  ideas;  they  wait  around 
for  some  bell-wether  to  show  them  where  they 
want  to  go.  After  you've  been  working  on  news- 
papers for  a  while  you  learn  a  few  things  about 
the  way  reputations  are  made  and  'the  right  man* 
is  found  for  a  place." 

"I  can  never  be  grateful  enough,"  Rose  cried, 
catching  up  Goitie  Moiphy  who  was  sitting  always 
expectant  beside  her  chair,  "that  we  have  found 
Catherine — and  poor  little  Mollie.  Lucius  and 
Mr.  Creighton  were  interested  in  Catherine — 
weren't  they?" 


The  Sword  Falls 

"Yes,  indeed;  they'll  both  be  worth  a  lot  to 
her  and  she  to  them." 

"Where" — Rose  tried  to  speak  casually,  but 
the  effort  was  not  a  good  one — "is  Dudley  these 
days?" 

Davy  looked  up  sharply.  His  quick  ear  caught 
the  tone  of  anxiety  in  her  voice  and  it  made  him 
fearful.  But  he,  too,  tried  to  seem  casual  in 
answering. 

"  Out  of  town,  I  suppose — digging  up  stuff  for 
this  new  series.  Haven't  you  heard  from  him?" 

"Only  a  line  to  say  that  he  would  be  out  of 
town  for  a  few  days.  Davy,  do  you  know,  I 
can't  help  wishing  that  you  had  taken  that 
job." 

"  Do  you,  dear  ?  Well,  I've  been  wishing, 
lately,  that  I  had.  Dudley  '11  do  it  a  hundred 
times  better  than  I  ever  could  have  done  it.  But 
it  would  have  given  me  a  chance " 

"Did  you  let  Dudley  have  father's  papers  ?" 

"Yes;  I  got  the  boxes  out  of  storage  and  ex- 
pressed them  to  him." 

"Have  you  ever  gone  through  them?" 

"Oh,  yes — every  one  of  them." 

Rose  looked  relieved.  "Was  there  anything 
there  that  might  be — of  help  to  him  ?"  she  asked. 

"Certainly — pretty  nearly  everything  relating 
to  that  strike  is  on  record  in  the  letter-files  and 
newspaper-scrap  books." 

179 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"You'd  think,"  said  Rose,  "that  those  would 
naturally  have  gone  into  the  State  archives." 

"The  State  gave  them  all  to  us,"  Davy  an- 
swered. 

"Wasn't  that — unusual?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Somebody  up  at  The 
Players  the  other  day — I  forget  just  who  it  was 
— told  me  of  his  effort  to  locate  certain  of  the  old 
letter-files  at  the  White  House.  Until  very  re- 
cently, he  was  told,  it  was  the  custom  of  each 
President  to  take  with  him,  when  he  retired  into 
private  life,  all  the  interesting  records  of  his 
Presidency.  He  inquired  around  Washington  at 
the  same  time  for  a  lot  of  things  he  fondly  sup- 
posed were  preserved  there,  and  found  that  most 
of  them  had  been  carried  off  as  curios  by  the 
officials  under  whose  charge  they  fell.  The  whole 
mass  of  correspondence  concerning  the  arrange- 
ments for  Lincoln's  funeral — for  instance — was 
considered  the  private  property  of  the  Treasury 
official  who  had  the  details  to  arrange;  his  heirs 
offered  the  lot  at  private  sale  a  while  ago.  Thou- 
sands of  documents  which  ought  to  belong  to  the 
Government  are  in  private  hands  throughout  the 
country.  There  hasn't  been  much  feeling  about 
'archives'  in  the  United  States  until  quite  re- 
cently." 

'Then  Dudley  won't  have  to  go  to  the  Capital 
to  get  anything  on  that  strike?" 

1 80 


The  Sword  Falls 

"Well,  you  see — he'd  naturally  want  to  go. 
There  might  be  things  there — very  important 
things.  When  you're  trailing  clews  in  research 
work  you  get  so  keen  on  the  scent  that  you  can't 
rest  until  you've  dug  in  every  conceivable  place 
where  there  might  be  a  particle  of  the  truth. 
For  in  history,  of  course,  the  truth  is  hard  to 
come  by;  everything  you  find  seems  to  deny  or  at 
least  to  discount  everything  else;  and  you  go  on 
and  on  and  on — hoping  to  find  the  last  elusive 
bit  of  evidence.  Then  you  begin  to  sift  and 
weigh;  to  qualify  every  man's  testimony  by  what 
you  know  of  his  prejudices,  and  so  on — gathering, 
scrutinizing,  challenging,  eliminating,  building  up, 
until  you've  come  to  what  you  hope  may  be  an 
honest  approximation  to  the  truth.  I've  had 
tastes  of  such  work.  It  gets  a  grip  on  you  no  one 
can  appreciate  who  hasn't  felt  something  of  the 
sort.  I  can  understand!  You  get  on  a  trail  and 
you'd  sell  your  only  other  suit  of  clothes  to  follow 
where  you  think  it  leads.  It's  a  magnificent 
madness.  I  hope  I'll  be  able  to  indulge  myself 
in  it  some  day." 

"I  hope  you  will,  dear."  Rose  smiled  tenderly 
up  at  him  as  he  rose  from  the  table.  But  Davy 
thought  he  could  tell  there  was  anxiety  behind 
the  smile. 

"How  is  Mrs.  Bristow  doing?"  she  asked  him 
— as  if  the  other  subject  had  ceased  to  interest  her. 

181 


Children  of  ToMorrow 

"Very  well.  I  haven't  seen  her  since  that 
night  she  was  here.  But  I  send  her  out  a  bundle 
of  books  each  week,  and  she  sends  the  reviews  in 
promptly.  They're  good,  too.  But  the  five  or  six 
dollars  she  can  get  from  the  sale  of  the  books  is  a 
pretty  poor  return  for  all  the  work  she  puts  into 
her  reviews.  I  wish  she  had  something  better." 

"Dear  Davy,"  murmured  Rose,  kissing  him; 
"he's  always  trying  to  boost  somebody  into  a 
better  place." 

"Look  who  he  has  forever  putting  him  up  to 
it,"  retorted  Davy. 

Davy  liked  to  go  up  to  The  Players  when  he 
could  for  lunch.  Nor  did  he  feel  that  the  time  it 
took  him  to  go  between  Park  Row  and  Gramercy 
Park  and  the  time  he  spent  lingering  over  his 
lunch  was  ill-spent  for  his  paper.  For  a  literary 
editor  gets  from  the  printed  pages  that  pass 
under  his  eye  only  a  small  part  of  what  makes 
his  columns  interesting  to  readers;  the  rest  he 
gets  from  contact  with  men  of  the  world  where 
books  are  made.  The  steady  inpouring  of  scores 
upon  scores  of  volumes,  smelling,  all,  of  fresh  ink, 
tends  soon  to  drown  a  man's  sense  of  individual 
values.  He  doesn't  read  the  books,  of  course; 
but  he  must  know  what  they  are  all  about;  he 
must  have  some  idea  of  the  probable  worth  of 
each;  he  must  exercise  good  judgment  in  his  selec- 

182 


The  Sword  Falls 

tion  of  certain  reviewers  for  certain  books.  If 
he  is  a  just  man,  he  does  not  give  the  new  Henry 
James  novel  to  a  reviewer  whose  avowed  favorite 
is  the  creator  of  Sherlock  Holmes;  he  does  not 
let  the  work  on  Spanish  cathedrals  go  out  to  a 
man  whose  sense  of  art  is  in  subordination  to  his 
anti-papacy  so  that  he  "foams  at  the  mouth  at 
mention  of  a  priest/*  He  sticks  to  his  own  spe- 
cialty among  the  books  that  come  to  him  for 
review — or  as  nearly  to  it  as  he  can,  whatever  it 
may  be — and  he  prides  himself  on  keeping  up  a 
reviewing  staff -large  enough  and  capable  enough 
so  that  a  [majority  of  the  books  that  come  in 
can  go  out  for  review  to  some  one  who  is  really 
interested  in  them  and  can  [compare  them  with 
other  books  of  their  class.  The  ability  to  keep 
up  a  strong  staff  of  reviewers  is  no  mean  one — 
because  all  the  reviewer  gets  for  the  job  is  the 
books  he  reviews;  if  he' is  trying  to  make  any 
money  out  of  his  reviewing,  he  sells  the  books 
to  a  dealer  for  about  fifty  or  sixty  per  cent  of 
their  list  price;  if  he  does  the  job  just  to  get  free 
of  cost  the  new  books  he  is  interested  in,  he  proba- 
bly keeps  the  books.  The  chief  value  of  a  liter- 
ary editor  is  epitomized^  in  something  like  this: 
"Say,  Sam,  the  Era  Company  is  bringing  out 
that  Waterhouse  book  on  Thibet.  You're  the 
only  man  I  know  of  who's  been  to  Thibet.  Will 
you  look  the  book  over  for  me?"  If  "Sam" 

183 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

likes  the  literary  editor  he  probably  agrees  to  re- 
view the  book;  he  knows  he'll  read  it  anyway, 
and  he  may  as  well  get  it  for  nothing.  In  a 
hundred  ways  like  this,  the  literary  editor  serves 
his  readers.  If  his  department  is  well  conducted 
and  attracts  the  interested  attention  of  many  book- 
buyers,  it  becomes  of  value  to  the  paper's  pub- 
lishers not  only  as  a  popular  "feature,"  but  be- 
cause of  the  large  amounts  of  advertising  book 
publishers  are  glad  to  put  in  columns  that  book- 
buyers  are  known  to  scan.  Yet  no  matter  what 
revenue  he  may  bring  his  paper,  the  literary  editor 
is  supposed  to  conduct  his  department  at  no  ex- 
pense except  that  of  his  own  salary — which  is 
never  embarrassingly  large. 

Davy's  wide  acquaintance  was  one  of  his  main 
assets  as  a  literary  editor.  Another  asset  was 
his  special  ability  to  review  books  dealing  with 
sociology  and  political  economy.  But  as  valuable 
an  asset  as  he  had  was  his  prodigious  memory  of 
the  publishing  output  for  a  decade  past,  at  least. 
His  mind  was  a  storehouse  of  "Who's  Who  and 
What  He's  Done."  He  knew,  as  Johnny  put  it, 
"just  how  everybody  stacks  up,"  and  yet  he  had 
an  ever-keen  interest,  which  he  was  able  to  com- 
municate in  a  measure  even  to  his  doggedest  re- 
viewers, in  seeing  how  each  new  work  measured  up 
to  the  author's  previous  standard,  or  fell  behind, 
or  set  him  forward  in  a  class  ahead. 

184 


The  Sword  Falls 

He  drifted  around  a  good  deal,  picking  up 
literary  information,  and  was  a  familiar  figure 
about  The  Players,  the  Aldine  Club,  in  those 
corners  of  the  Brevoort  where  bookmen  fore- 
gather, and  in  other  places  where  the  talk  is  of 
those  things  of  which  books  are  made.  His 
thick  thatch  of  light  sandy  hair;  his  near-sighted 
blue  eyes  behind  their  thick  glasses;  his  round 
shoulders;  the  way — peculiar  to  stoop-shouldered, 
near-sighted  persons — that  he  carried  his  head 
forward  as  if  he  were  always  straining  intently 
to  see,  to  hear,  all  contributed  to  make  up  an 
appearance  that  people  did  not  readily  forget. 
No  one  was  ever  openly  charmed  with  Davy  as 
with  Johnny,  so  that  it  was  plain  to  be  seen  that 
they  were  captivated.  Davy  wasn't  captivating; 
but  nearly  every  one  who  knew  him  liked  him 
— though  they  were  much  more  likely  to  tell 
their  fondness  to  some  one  else  than  to  show  it 
to  him.  He  was  one  of  the  kind  that  does  not 
seem  to  invite  manifestations  of  fondness  or 
friendship;  but  his  readiness  at  all  times  to 
"boost"  some  one  ahead  into  better  recognition 
of  his  merits  had  made  him  many  warm  friends 
— as  he  was  presently  to  discover. 

Dudley  Prichard  came  into  The  Players  at 
lunch  time  on  that  very  day  when  Rose  and  Davy 
had  been  discussing  him  at  breakfast.  He  was 
lunching  with  Sam  Hamilton  at  a  table  near  by 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

where  Davy  sat  with  Oswald  Seever  and  Bruce 
Norbury.  When  Davy's  coffee  came  Dudley  and 
Hamilton  got  up  from  their  table.  Hamilton 
stopped  only  to  speak,  on  his  way  out,  but 
Dudley  lingered. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Davy,"  he  said.  "  Can 
you  give  me  a  half-hour  this  afternoon?" 

"Yes — sure,"  Davy  answered. 

"Where?" 

"Anywhere  you  say." 

"It's  about  a  job  I'm  on,"  Prichard  explained 
to  Seever  and  Norbury.  "  Davy  knows  a  lot  about 
it,  and  I  want  him  to  go  over  some  details  with 
me." 

"Anywhere  you  say,  Dud,"  Davy  said. 

"Going  back  to  the  office  from  here?" 

"Yes." 

"I'll  go  that  way  with  you.  Look  for  me  in 
the  library  when  you're  ready  to  go." 

"Brilliant  fellow,  Prichard,  all  right,"  mur- 
mured Seever  when  Dudley's  back  was  turned. 
"And  a  hard  worker,  too.  He  gets  big  prices  for 
his  stuff,  but  there's  no  end  to  the  labor  he  puts 
into  it.  He  really  tries  to  get  to  the  bottom  of 
things.  Half  the  fellows  don't,  it  seems  to  me; 
they're  satisfied  if  they  can  kick  up  a  big  dust 
and  make  everybody  exclaim  against  it." 

'Yes,"  said  Davy;  "Dud's  coming  on  fast — 
turning  out  strong  stuff."  He  seemed  abstracted 

186 


The  Sword  Falls 

as  he  spoke,  as  if  his  mind  had  strayed  elsewhere, 
beyond  Prichard's  cleverness;  and  he  drank  his 
black  coffee  quite  hastily  instead  of  lingering  over 
it  as  he  liked  to  do. 

"Well,  boys,  I'm  off,"  he  announced,  and  went 
to  find  Prichard  in  the  library. 

Davy  thought  Prichard  acted  as  if  under  some 
constraint,  but  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  was 
said  until  they  had  reached  the  street.  Naturally, 
Davy  would  have  taken  the  Subway  at  Eight- 
eenth Street;  but  any  talk  is,  of  course,  impos- 
sible in  the  ear-splitting  racket  of  the  "tube/* 

"Do  you  mind  walking  a  bit?"  Dudley  asked. 

"No;   I'm  glad  to." 

So  they  turned  eastward  to  Irving  Place  and 
strolled  down  that  quiet  little  "backwater"  of  the 
traffic  currents  toward  Fourteenth  Street. 

"Davy,"  began  Prichard  nervously,  "I've  been 
digging  for  dear  life  into  this  labor  thing." 

He  paused  as  if  he  thought  that  perhaps  Davy 
would  guess  what  he  was  trying  to  say  and  would 
help  him  out.  But  Davy  did  not  speak. 

"I've" —  Prichard  went  on  desperately — "I've 
turned  up  a  lot  of  stuff  that  has — has  surprised 
me  completely." 

Again  he  waited.  But  "Yes?"  was  all  that 
Davy  said. 

"I — Davy,  this  is  terribly  hard  for  me  to  say — 
but  I — some  of  the  revelations  concerned  your 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

father — contradicted  the — the  general  impressions 
about  his — death/' 

Davy  bowed  his  head. 

"You  know?"  Prichard  asked. 

"I  know." 

"Have  you  always  known?" 

"I  have  always  known.  It— it  came  to  me  in 
a  way  I  will — tell  you — presently." 

"Do  the  others  know?" 

"You  mean  Rose  and  Johnny?" 

"Yes." 

"I  don't  know.  You'll  think  that  strange — 
but  I  don't  know.  There  have  been  times  when 
I  thought  Rose  knew.  And  then,  again,  I'd  be 
sure  that  she  didn't  know.  I — I  hardly  think  it 
can  be  possible  that  she  knows  or  she'd  be  be- 
trayed, some  time,  into  giving  a  sign — she  loved 
him  so — she  is  so  jealous  of  his  fame " 

"And  Johnny?" 

"I  can't  believe  Johnny  knows.  His  is  such 
an  open  nature — he's  out  with  everything.  If  he 
had  known  it  all  these  years  I'd  surely  have  found 
out.  He  couldn't  keep  it  from  me " 

"Have  you  any  idea  how  generally  it  is 
known  ? " 

"Naturally,  no — but  not  very  generally,  I  be- 
lieve. Everything  that  could  be  done  was  done 
— to  keep  it  covered." 

"It  was — I  don't  know  that  I  have  ever  been 
188 


The  Sword  Falls 

so  shocked,"  murmured  Prichard.  "I — it  puts 
me  in  a  hard  place,  Davy." 

Davy  lifted  his  head  quickly  and  looked  at 
Dudley  Prichard. 

"A  hard  place?"  he  echoed  uncomprehend- 
ingly. 

"Of  course!  It's  hard — you  know  how  much  I 
think  of  Rose — of  all  of  you — it's  hard  that  this 
disclosure  should  fall  on  me " 

"Disclosure?" 

"Why,  yes;  I'm  on  this  job — I  find  these  facts 
— what  can  I  do?" 

Davy  turned  and  faced  him.  "You — you  can't 
mean  that  you  thought  of — of  publishing  that?" 
he  cried  furiously. 

Prichard's  ire  rose  under  the  goad  of  the  angry 
incredulity  in  Davy's  look  and  tone. 

"Publish  it?"  he  retorted.  "Why,  what  else 
can  I  do  ?  I  undertake  to  ferret  out  and  set  forth 
the  facts  in  this  phase  of  the  history  of  industry 
in  America.  In  getting  ready  to  handle  the  big- 
gest story  in  the  annals  of  labor  strife,  I  uncover 
the  most  startling  example  of  truth-suppression 
and  misdirected  hysteria  that  this  country  has 
ever  known,  with  one  exception.  What  can  I  do  ? 
Shall  I  put  myself  on  record  in  perpetuation  of 
what  I  know  is  untrue  ?  You  know  what  is  in- 
volved, Davy.  Say  you  understand!" 

"Shall  /  speak  untruth?"  cried  Davy.  "I  do 
189 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

not  understand!  God!  May  I  never  understand 
how  there  could  be  a  man  like  you!" 

"You  are  unjust!"  Prichard  exclaimed,  wincing. 

Davy  made  no  reply. 

"Is  this — do  we  part  over  this?"  Prichard 
asked. 

Davy  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then:  "Dud- 
ley," he  said,  "if  this  blow  could  fall  on  me  alone, 
I  wouldn't — stoop  to  plead  with  you.  But  it 
can't!  Other  hearts  must  break — among  them 
the  sweetest  and  tenderest  heart  that  beats  under 
any  breast.  If  you — if  you  stab  Rose  with  this 
thing — if  you  put  out  the  light  in  Johnny's  laugh- 
ing eyes — I — I  believe  I  shall  kill  you!" 

He  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  but  with  a  quiet  despera- 
tion that  was  terrifying.  He  was  not  threatening; 
rather,  he  seemed  horrified  at  his  own  purpose,  yet 
unalterably  sure  of  it. 

Prichard  glanced  uneasily  about  the  quiet  street. 
There  was  that  about  Davy  which  made  it  seem 
that  he  was  quite  capable  of  doing  as  he  said  and 
of  doing  it  here  and  now.  He  quickened  his  pace 
so  that  they  might  the  sooner  reach  Fourteenth 
Street.  On  that  noisy  thoroughfare  this  painful 
talk  could  not  continue. 

"Davy,"  he  begged  pacifically,  "this  has  been 
a  terrible  shock  to  you — to  both  of  us.  Don't  be 
hasty  in  condemning  me.  Think  it  over  fairly 
from  my  point  of  view — I  thought  it  over  from 

190 


The  Sword  Falls 

yours.  I'm  not  going  to  tell  anybody.  Nothing 
will  be  ready  for  print  for  weeks  and  weeks — it 
will  be  a  year,  at  least,  before  the  series  reaches 
that  point  where  this  story  comes  in.  Don't  be 
rash.  Give  me  credit  for  something — for  coming 
to  you  first  of  all  when  I  had  found  this  out  and 
telling  you  how  things  stood.  I  could  have  waited, 
Davy;  I  could — this  has  been  damned  hard  to  do 
— I  could  have  turned  coward.  But  I  couldn't 
face  you  with  this  preying  on  my  mind.  And  I 
couldn't  face  Rose,  knowing  that  I  was  conceal- 
ing this  from  her.  I — we  understand  each  other, 
Rose  and  I — I  think  she  loves  me — but  I  couldn't 
let  her  go  on  without  knowing  this.  If  she,  too, 
hates  me,  I  must  bear  it.  But  I  shall  have 
done " 

A  taxicab  drove  up  to  the  curb.  Davy  must 
have  hailed  it  while  Prichard  was  talking;  he 
bolted  forward  now  and  jumped  into  the  cab. 

"Hey,  Davy!"  Prichard  cried.  "Where  are 
you  going  ? " 

But  Davy,  inside,  pointed  to  the  driver  to  go 
toward  Fifth  Avenue,  and  as  the  cab  shot  forward 
he  leaned  toward  the  driver  and  gave  him  the 
address. 

In  about  five  minutes  Davy  was  at  home. 

Johnny  was  not  there;  he  had  gone  out  imme- 
diately after  luncheon.  Rose  was  in  her  room 
getting  ready  for  the  street.  She  had  decided  she 

191 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

would  go  uptown  and  call  on  the  Bristows.  When 
she  heard  a  key  in  the  lock  she  supposed  Johnny 
must  have  returned  for  something. 

Davy  came  into  the  dining-room  and  called: 

"Rose!" 

"Why,  Davy!"  she  cried,  running  out  to  him. 
"Are  you  ill,  dear?" 

Davy  looked  ill — mortally  ill — but  he  declared 
he  was  not. 

"I  just  had  something  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you 
about,"  he  said,  "  and  I  stopped  here  on  my  way 
back  from  The  Players." 

Rose  was  reassured,  although  it  was  a  little 
startling  that  Davy  should  have  anything  to  talk 
to  her  about  that  could  not  wait  till  dinner  time. 

"Nothing  has  happened,  I  hope?"  she  asked 
anxiously. 

"Yes,  Rose,  dear,"  Davy  answered,  "some- 
thing has.  Don't  be  frightened.  But  I — I  wanted 
to  talk  to  you  about  it  before  any  one  else  did." 

"Not  Johnny ?" 

"No,   dear.     Not   anybody — on   earth." 

He  motioned  to  her  to  sit  down  on  the  big 
davenport  in  the  living-room,  and  he  sat  beside 
her. 

"I  have  just  left  Dudley  Prichard,"  he  began. 
There  was  that  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  that  told 
Rose  the  rest. 

She  clutched  his  arm  fearfully. 
192 


The  Sword  Falls 

"Not — not — "  she  gasped;  the  words  would 
not  come. 

"Rose!"  implored  Davy.  "Rose!  What  is 
it?" 

She  flung  her  head  upon  his  breast  and  broke 
into  a  passion  of  tears.  % 

For  a  few  moments  Davy  soothed  her  in  silence. 
When  it  seemed  as  if  she  might  be  able  to  com- 
mand herself  to  answer,  he  asked  her:  "Dear — 
you  know  ? " 

"Yes,"  she  sobbed;   "I  know." 

"How  long?" 

"Oh,  very  long — many  lifetimes,  it  seems  to 
me." 

"Who  told  you?" 

Rose  hesitated.  "Mother,"  she  said.  The  shame 
her  mother  had  not  felt  in  telling  it  overwhelmed 
her  now  as  she  admitted  to  her  brother  that  their 
mother  had  done  this  thing. 

Davy  repressed  the  first  exclamation  that  rose 
to  his  lips.  After  a  pregnant  pause,  "I  wonder 
iuhy  ?"  he  murmured. 

Again  Rose  hesitated;  it  seemed  impossible  to 
tell  this;  she  couldn't  bring  herself  to  frame  the 
words,  even  to  Davy  who  knew  his  mother  so  well 
that  he  might  know  how  to  understand — perhaps 
even  to  forgive — her  jealousy.  Rose's  silence  was 
telltale;  Davy  could  guess  what  it  was  she  would 
not  say. 

193 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"How  could  she?"  he  whispered  under  his 
breath. 

Rose  heard  him.  "It — it  was  an  awful  thing 
for  her  to  do,"  she  said,  "but  she  didn't  realize 
that  it  was.  Fm  sure  she  was  unsettled  in  her 
poor  mind  by  the  shock,  the  grief.  And  the  turn 
her  melancholy  took  was  dwelling  on  her  wrongs, 
not  on  her  loss.  You  and  Johnny  were  in  school 
and  in  college — away  from  her — most  of  the  time. 
I  was  with  her — I  knew.  She  said  she  had  to 
have  some  one  to  talk  to  about  her  wrongs — and 
so  she  talked  to  me.  But  she  didn't  want  you 
boys  to  know.  She — she  said  it  was  better  for 
you  to  believe  that  father  was  a — good  man. 
Davy!"  Rose  went  on  heart-brokenly,  "that  was 
the  most  dreadful  thing  of  all — mother  couldn't 
remember  any  of  his  great  goodness.  She  forgot 
everything  but  that  one  thing.  She  used  to  say 
that  she  had  to  *  pretend'  so  much  before  the 
world  that  it  was  too  much  to  ask  her  to  pretend 
before  me,  too.  And  she — couldn't  understand 
why  I  should  love  him  so.  She  wasn't  rational, 
you  see ! " 

Davy  was  overwhelmed.  His  mind  was  trav- 
elling back  over  all  those  years  when  he  and 
Johnny  had  been  away  from  home  getting  their 
education  and  living  the  hale  and  hearty  life  of 
boys  among  their  peers,  while  this  infinitely  ten- 
der little  creature  with  her  great  love  and  her  great 

194 


The  Sword  Falls 

sensitiveness  had  spent  her  days  under  the  hide- 
ous pall  of  that  jealousy  and  brooding  melancholy; 
the  mother  who  should  have  been  protecting  her 
with  every  loving  care  making,  instead,  a  forced 
confidante  of  this  poor  little  child,  filling  her  mind 
with  black  wretchedness  that  she  must  hide  and 
hide  and  hide  all  her  life  through.  ...  It  was 
almost  beyond  belief !  And  now,  through  another 
to  whom  her  sweet  trust  had  gone  out,  this  blow 
was  to  fall  on  her  and  there  was  nothing  that 
could  be  done  to  save  her. 

Davy  groaned.  His  mind  was  on  the  rack,  and 
the  torment  wrung  from  him  one  groan  of  an- 
guish unbearable.  .  .  .  Murder  was  in  his  heart 
for  the  first  time  in  his  clean  young  life — red  lust 
to  kill. 

The  doorbell  rang.  He  heard  Dudley  Prich- 
ard's  voice  in  the  hall.  His  face  went  livid. 
Then,  with  a  cry  of  terror,  he  bolted  from  the 
room,  through  the  dining-room,  and  into  Rose's 
bedroom.  Slamming  the  door  shut  behind  him, 
he  locked  it  and  threw  the  key  out  the  window. 


195 


CHAPTER  XII 

"THE    OBLIGATION    OF    THE    TRUTH" 

THE  Inneses'  servant  had  not  heard  Davy 
come  in.  She  knew  that  Dudley  Prichard 
was  always  welcomed;  and  thinking  that  Miss 
Rose  was  in  her  room  getting  ready  to  go  out,  she 
directed  Mr.  Prichard  to  the  living-room  and  went 
to  announce  him — reaching  Rose's  door  just  after 
Davy  had  slammed  and  locked  it. 

"I'm  here,  Nora,"  Rose  called  to  her  from  the 
living-room. 

Discretion  was  not  in  Nora;  and  for  the  most 
part  the  lack  of  it  was  no  serious  drawback  in 
this  household  where  everything  was,  in  her  own 
phrase,  "as  plain  as  day."  She  had  seen  a  man 
disappear  into  Miss  Rose's  room.  There  could  be 
only  one  explanation:  he  was  a  burglar. 

Nora's  eyes  spoke  terror.  "There's  a  robber 
in  the  house,"  she  declared.  "  He's  in  your  room." 

"It's  Mr.  David,  Nora,"  Rose  answered.  "He 
came  home  feeling  badly,  about  fifteen  minutes 
ago." 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  him?"  Nora  asked. 
196 


"The  Obligation  of  the  Truth" 

"  I  don't  think  so.     He  just  wants  to  be  quiet." 

Nora  had  not  failed  to  note  the  evidences  of 
tears  on  her  dear  Miss  Rose's  face.  Her  warm 
Irish  heart  misgave  her  about  Mr.  Davy;  but 
Miss  Rose's  manner  was  so  reassuring  that  she 
went  away  without  asking  further  questions. 

When  they  were  alone,  Dudley  began  to  apol- 
ogize to  Rose  for  his  presence. 

"Nora  told  me  to  come  in,"  he  explained.  "I 
— I  know  I  intruded." 

He  looked  so  acutely  wretched  that  Rose's 
heart  went  out  to  him  in  tender  pity. 

"Sit  down,  dear,"  she  urged  gently. 

He  dropped  into  that  corner  of  the  davenport 
which  Davy  had  just  vacated,  and  leaning  forward 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"This  is  horrible,"  he  groaned — "horrible!" 

She  laid  her  hand  comfortingly  on  his  bowed 
shoulders.  "Davy  has  told  me,"  she  said. 

He  raised  his  head.  "Didn't  you  know  be- 
fore ?"  he  asked. 

"About  father?" 

"Yes." 

"I  knew — I  have  known  for  years." 

"Are  you  going  to  hate  me,  Rose?" 

"For  finding  out?  Why,  you  couldn't  help 
that!" 

What  had  Davy  told  her?  Evidently  not  the 
one  thing  that  Dudley  supposed  he  had. 

197 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"No,"  he  echoed  confusedly,  "I  couldn't  help 
that/' 

"But  you  are  so  horrified?  Dudley,  don't  let 
yourself  judge  him  too  harshly.  He  had  his 
human  weaknesses — but  he  had  in  many  things 
a  more  than  human  strength.  I  know  nothing 
about  this — this  affair  which  cost  him  his  life — 
which  took  him  from  us  and  from  the  world  that 
needed  him.  But  I  know  that  not  all  that  has 
been  said  about  him  has  overpraised  his  goodness 
— his  greatness." 

He  was  silent,  not  knowing  where  to  begin  to 
make  his  situation  clear  to  her. 

Misunderstanding  his  silence,  she  thought  a  new 
light  broke  upon  her.  She  had  supposed  him  un- 
happy because  he  felt  he  could  not  now  do  Ly- 
man  Innes  the  loving  justice  he  had  hoped  to  do 
him.  Then  it  flashed  over  her  that  perhaps  he 
thought  less  of  her,  in  the  light  of  this  discovery, 
and  did  not  know  how  to  tell  her. 

Her  cheeks  burned  and  behind  their  mist  of 
tears  her  eyes  flashed. 

"Dudley,"  she  demanded,  "is  it  possible  that 
you  think  less  of  me — and  of  all  of  us — because  of 
this  discovery  ? " 

"  No ! "  he  cried ;  "  no !  I'm  not  a  fool.  But  it's 
this:  you  don't  seem  to  understand.  I've  under- 
taken to  probe  into  a  phase  of  history  and  to  try 
to  discover  the  truth  about  it.  I  find  that  the 

198 


"The  Obligation  of  the  Truth" 

leading  event  with  which  I  am  to  deal  is  built 
out  of  a  tissue  of  lies.  I — I  can't  perpetuate  the 
lies." 

"You — you  mean,"  she  gasped,  her  eyes  fast- 
ened on  him  in  a  stare  of  mixed  horror  and  in- 
credulity, "that  you  want  to — to  publish  what 
you've  learned  ? " 

"I  must,"  he  answered  desperately. 

She  was  on  her  feet  confronting  him,  blazing 
with  fury. 

"You  must?  Why  must  you?  What  obliga- 
tion could  there  be  strong  enough  to  force  any 
man  to  such  a  thing  ? " 

"The  obligation  of  the  truth,"  he  returned 
doggedly. 

"The  truth!  What  is  the  truth?  The  prime 
truth  about  my  father  is  that  he  was  all  he  has 
been  represented  to  be.  If  this  other  is  true  about 
him,  it  is  not  THE  truth!  The  truth  as  told  about 
him  has  been  an  inspiration  to  tens  of  thousands. 
You  want  to  shatter  this  ideal!" 

"I  do  not!"  he  cried.  "I  want  to  give  him 
every  particle  of  credit  he's  entitled  to.  I  have 
his  letters — his  scrapbooks.  They  bear  witness 
that  no  man  can  question,  to  his  attitude  toward 
labor  and  its  just  demands.  But  I  cannot  repeat 
the  lies  about  his  death." 

"Why  do  you  need  to  discuss  his  death  ?" 

"Because  it  is  the  pivot  of  the  whole  affair. 
199 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

The  sentiment  it  aroused  marked  the  beginning 
of  a  new  era  in  public  sentiment.  It — why,  you 
know  as  well  as  I  do — it  started  a  new  school  of 
writing — a  flood  of  sentimental  literature  in  which 
some  hero  of  the  classes  gives  his  life  for  his  belief 
in  the  masses.  A  whole  world  of  hysteria  has 
grown  out  of  the  lies  told  about  that  death.'* 

"Sentiment,"  she  reminded  him  hotly,  "is  not 
always  hysteria  because  it  seems  such  to  the 
cynical/' 

"I  am  not  cynical,  Rose — nor  unsentimental. 
But  I  tell  you,  untruth  is  unwholesome.  All  big 
literature,  sacred  and  profane,  tells  the  truth 
about  men.  It  doesn't  try  to  sustain  David's 
spirituality  by  suppressing  the  truth  about  Uriah's 
wife;  Ulysses  isn't  any  less  a  hero  because  of 
Calypso;  we  don't  discredit  Solomon's  wisdom 
because  we  know  he  was  a  carnal  man.  This 
isn't  any  new  attitude  of  mine;  you  know  I've 
always  written  what  I  believed  to  be  the  truth, 
no  matter  what  it  has  cost  me.  I've  had  some 
hard  fights;  but  I've  won  respect  for  my  work. 
I  can't  go  back  on  that  record  now.  I  can't  let 
my  love  for  you,  my  affection  for  the  boys,  stultify 
me.  I  would  do  the  same  if  it  were  my  own  father 
who  was  involved.  For  I  know  that  the  truth 
must  prevail;  and  I  hope  I  am  too  wise  to  try  to 
stand  against  it.  I  explained  to  Davy:  this  isn't 
going  to  come  out  to-morrow,  nor  next  month.  I 

200 


"The  Obligation  of  the  Truth" 

began  my  investigating  with  the  struggle  your 
father  represents  because  I  could  get  the  fullest 
detail  on  that  most  easily,  and  out  of  that  detail 
I  could  pick  up  the  threads  that  would  lead  me 
back  into  earlier  struggles.  I  have  months  of 
research  yet  to  do;  it  will  be  a  year  before  this 
revelation  gets  to  print.  But  I  felt  I  must  tell 
you  about  it — I  could  not  accept  any  evidences 
of  regard  from  you  while  I  was  hiding  from  you 
a  discovery  like  that.  If  you  feel  that  I  have 
estranged  myself  from  you,  I  must  bear  it.  But  I 
shall  at  least  know  that  I  have  done  what  the 
truth  demands." 

Rose  made  no  effort  at  any  time  to  interrupt 
him,  but  let  him  say  his  say  to  the  bitter  end.  ^.j 

"Dudley,"  she  began  when  he  seemed  waiting 
for  her  to  speak,  "as  you  say,  this  is  no  matter 
for  haste.  I  want  to  be  just — to  everybody.  I 
must  think.  You  will,  of  course,  keep  it  secret; 
journalistic  prudence,  if  nothing  else,  would  make 
you  do  that.  Davy  and  I  will  talk  it  over.  I — 
I'm  quite  sure  we'll  try  not  to  let  Johnny  know 
— not  yet.  There's  nothing,  it  seems,  that  we  can 
do — except  to  reconcile  ourselves.  Wait  till  you 
hear  from  me.  When  we  know  how  we  can  com- 
mand ourselves,  I'll  send  you  word." 

When  he  was  gone  she  sat  down  in  a  low  chair; 
her  small  hands  were  quite  cruelly  clinched;  every 
muscle  was  tense  with  strain.  She  was  telling 

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Children  of  To-Morrow 

herself  that  she  must  fight  this  out — she  must 
try  to  think — to  reason — to  decide — to  plan.  But 
her  mind  refused  her  mandates.  It  was  inert; 
she  could  not  force  it. 

She  got  up  presently  and  went  to  the  door  of 
her  room.  Davy  was  there — he  would  help  her. 
She  tried  the  knob  gently.  When  she  found  the 
door  locked  she  fainted. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  front  doorbell  rang 
and  Nora  answered  it.  A  gentleman  she  did  not 
remember  ever  to  have  seen  asked  for  Miss  Innes. 

Nora  heard  no  sound  from  the  living-room. 
She  had  her  own  intuitions  about  the  status  of 
Dudley  Prichard  in  the  household,  and  she  thought 
she  understood  why  it  was  so  quiet  in  the  living- 
room.  It  was  quiet  in  the  kitchen  for  long  stretches 
at  a  time — so  quiet  you  could  hear  the  ticking  of 
the  clock — on  the  evenings  when  Nora's  beau 
came. 

"I — I  think  Miss  Innes  is  out,'*  Nora  said. 
Then,  being  a  bad  dissembler,  "I'll — I'll  ask  her," 
she  stammered,  and  in  defiance  of  instructions 
closed  the  door  in  the  gentleman's  face. 

The  apartment  was  one  of  those  with  a  long, 
narrow  hall  out  of  which  most  of  the  rooms  opened. 
The  door  into  the  living-room  was  not  more  than 
three  or  four  short  paces  from  the  front  door.  Nora 
tiptoed  along  the  wall  and  knocked  on  the  lintel. 

202 


"The  Obligation  of  the  Truth" 

Receiving  no  answer,  she  ventured  to  speak. 
"Miss  Rose!'*  she  called  in  a  loud  whisper. 
When  there  was  no  response  Nora  peeked  in. 
Finding  the  room  empty,  she  called  again,  and 
louder.  They  were  in  Mr.  Davy's  den,  no  doubt. 
But  no  answer  came  from  there. 

"I  guess  I  told  the  truth,"  laughed  Nora  to 
herself;  "she  did  go  out." 

She  was  about  to  return  to  the  door  to  tell  the 
caller  this,  when  her  eye — straying  to  Miss  Rose's 
door  to  see  if  there  was  any  sign  of  Mr.  David — 
caught  sight  of  the  limp  figure  on  the  floor. 

She  screamed;  and  in  the  same  instant  Bruce 
Norbury  burst  in  from  the  hall,  and  Davy  bounded 
to  the  door  and  implored  to  know  what  had  hap- 
pened. 

"Come  out,  Mr.  Davy;  come  out  quick!" 
Nora  shouted.  "I  think  Miss  Rose  is  dead." 

Davy  flung  himself  against  the  door  and  it 
crashed  open.  Bruce  Norbury  had  Rose  in  his 
arms. 

"In  here,"  sobbed  Davy;  and  Bruce  laid  her 
on  her  own  bed. 

"She  has  fainted,"  he  said.  "Water,  Davy — 
and  brandy." 

He  unfastened  her  collar  and  the  top  hooks  of 
her  dress.  Nora  fetched  ice-water  and  Davy  was 
there  in  an  instant  with  brandy. 

As  soon  as  he  saw  signs  of  returning  conscious- 
203 


Children  of  To-Moirow 

ness,  Bruce  stepped  out  of  the  room.  Something 
was  wrong  here,  evidently,  when  Davy  was  locked 
in  Rose's  room  and  Rose  lay  in  a  faint  outside  the 
door.  He  went  into  the  living-room,  far  out  of 
ear-shot,  and  debated  within  himself  whether  it 
would  be  more  delicate  for  him  to  slip  away,  or 
to  wait  and  seem  to  accept  whatever  tale  Davy 
offered. 

Putting  himself  in  Davy's  place,  he  decided  to 
remain  and  reassure  Davy.  If  he  went,  Davy 
might  suffer  distress  over  what  he  supposed  Bruce 
must  be  thinking. 

It  was  many  minutes — perhaps  twenty — before 
Davy  came.  Bruce  was  standing  at  the  front 
windows  looking  across  Washington  Square. 

Davy  laid  a  hand  on  Norbury's  shoulder  and 
Norbury  turned.  He  was  startled  almost  out  of 
his  control  by  the  expression  of  Davy's  face.  It 
was  not  two  hours  since  they  had  sat  together  at 
luncheon;  yet  in  that  space  of  time  Davy  seemed 
to  have  aged  as  with  years  of  suffering. 

"Don't  try  to  tejl  me  anything,  Dave,"  Nor- 
bury entreated.  "I  don't  need  to  know.  I  am 
satisfied.  Just  forget  that  I  was  here,  and  I'll 
forget  it." 

"Bruce,"  said  Davy,  "if  you'd  let  me  talk  to 
you  I  think  it  might  keep  me  from  going  mad. 
I've  got  to  get  some  other  point  of  view  on  this 
than  my  own.  I've  got  to,  for  her  sake.  You're 

204 


"The  Obligation  of  the  Truth" 

here — perhaps  you  were  sent.  If  you  hadn't  come 
I  should  have  been  sorely  tried  to  know  whom  I 
could  talk  to.  Not  that  I  haven't  many  friends  I 
trust,  but — can't  we  sit  down,  Bruce?" 

As  if  his  knees  suddenly  gave  way,  he  sank  into 
a  chair. 

Bruce  stepped  into  the  dining-room  and  fetched 
a  glass  of  brandy  from  Davy's  liqueur  cabinet. 
Davy  swallowed  it  gratefully.  Then  he  plunged 
bravely  in. 

"Bruce,"  he  began,  "have  you  ever  heard  any- 
thing about — about  my  father's  death  that — that 
wasn't  quite  like  the  usual  account  of  it?" 

Norbury's  face  showed  that  he  had.  "One 
hears  all  sorts  of  things  about  any  event  of  great 
public  interest,"  he  replied  evasively. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  you  have 
heard?" 

"Why,  that  there  was  some — that  the  assassin, 
Bardeen,  fancied  he  had  a — a  different  sort  of  a 
grievance  than  the — the  one  that  has  always  been 
ascribed  to  him." 

"His— wife?" 

"Yes." 

"Do — do  many  people — I  mean,  do  you  think 
many  persons  have  heard  of  this?" 

"I  think  not — it  has  been  mentioned  once  or 
twice  in  my  hearing,  but  I've  never  given  it  any 
credence — always  set  it  down  to  the  malice  of 

205 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

those  who  opposed  your  father's  attitude.  I  fancy 
most  persons  would  do  the  same." 

Davy  told  him  about  Prichard;  about  the  talk 
with  Rose,  and  how  he  had  locked  himself  away 
when  he  heard  Prichard's  voice,  fearing  what  he 
might  do.  What  had  transpired  between  Rose 
and  Dudley  he  did  not  know.  But  Dudley  was 
gone  and  Rose  was — as  Bruce  saw. 

The  passionate  anger  Bruce  felt  against  Prich- 
ard he  controlled  with  supreme  effort;  his  ser- 
vice to  Davy  must  be  to  calm  him  and  not  to  add 
fuel  to  his  rage. 

Bruce  Norbury  was  a  man  of  elegant  leisure — 
"and  always  busy,"  as  he  was  wont  to  add.  He 
had  an  income  sufficient  for  his  needs;  and  as  for 
his  wants,  not  many  of  them  were  of  a  sort  money 
can  satisfy.  He  was  born  with  one  great  gift,  the 
gift  for  friendship.  And  it  was  his  friendships 
that  kept  him  busy. 

Jim  Sansome,  for  instance,  falls  ill  and  is  or- 
dered to  Southern  California.  He  doesn't  know 
a  soul  west  of  the  Mississippi  and  he  is  desper- 
ately afraid  he  may  die  out  on  that  far  coast. 
There  seems  to  be  no  one  who  can  go  with  him — 
except  Bruce.  So  Bruce  goes.  In  Santa  Barbara 
they  meet  Phoenix  Ordway  whose  paintings  of  the 
missions  by  moonlight  have  made  him  fame  and 
fortune.  Before  he  has  been  there  a  fortnight, 

206 


"The  Obligation  of  the  Truth" 

Bruce  is  fathoms  deep  in  the  fascination  of  the 
missions — pictorially,  historically,  architecturally, 
and  every  other  wise.  He  has  a  winter  of  deep 
delight,  and  gets  on  the  trail  of  so  many  interesting 
things  that  he  is  not  content  until  he  has  followed 
the  trails  into  old  Mexico.  From  there  the  trails 
lead  to  Spain.  And  on  a  day  when  Tom  Berwin, 
at  the  National  Arts  Club,  says  he  wants  to  go 
to  Spain  to  make  some  architectural  studies,  and 
wishes  he  knew  "an  English-speaking  white  man 
who'd  go  along/'  Bruce  offers  himself.  Two 
months  of  the  Alhambra  and  the  cathedrals,  of 
Toledo  and  Burgos  and  Salamanca  and  Seville, 
and  Bruce  finds  his  architectural  understanding 
most  enjoyably  keen — thanks  to  Tom — and  whet- 
ted for  a  sight  of  some  good  classic  models  with 
which  he  may  compare  the  Gothic  and  see  if  he 
can  recognize  in  himself  those  essentially  differ- 
ent feelings  which  Tom  says  the  classics  induce. 
And  thus  and  thus,  Bruce  Norbury.  People 
envy  him  his  ability  to  indulge  himself  in  for- 
eign travel — people  who  spend  thrice  as  much 
every  year  to  live  in  a  hole  in  one  of  Manhattan's 
tall  apartment  "cliffs."  He  has  a  bit  of  astro- 
nomical enthusiasm,  which  gives  him  pleasure  on 
almost  every  clear  night.  He  has  a  simple  satis- 
faction in  knowing  birds  and  trees  and  plants 
by  name,  which  puts  zest  into  his  country  excur- 
sions. His  sympathy  with  many  men  makes  him 

207 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

absorb  the  best  of  each,  and  his  desire  to  give  quid 
pro  quo  in  friendship  makes  him  give  liberally 
out  of  his  assorted  interests  in  return  for  a  share 
in  the  specific  interest  of  the  friend  he  is  with. 

"Do  you  know  exactly  what  it  is  that  Prichard 
has  stumbled  upon?"  he  asked  Davy. 

"No,  he  didn't  say  how  he  found  out — merely 
that  he  knew." 

"Have  you  any  idea  what  he  may  have  found  ?" 

"No,  not  the  least." 

"Would  it  be  an  impertinence  if  I  asked  you 
just  what  you  know,  and  who  told  you  ? " 

"I  overheard  it.  My  father's  body  was  in  the 
library  of  the  Executive  Mansion,  after  it  was 
coffined  and  before  it  was  taken  to  the  Capitol  to 
lie  in  state.  I  was  in  there,  alone,  and  I  heard 
some  men  coming.  I  had  been  crying  passion- 
ately, and  I  didn't  want  to  have  to  talk  to  any 
one,  so  I  hid.  My  father's  private  secretary,  Per- 
kins, came  in,  and  two  or  three  State  officials;  I 
think  one  was  the  Secretary  of  State  and  one  was 
the  Attorney-General.  They  wrere  discussing  the 
plans  for  the  lying-in-state.  'I  hope,'  one  of 
them  said  to  Perkins,  'there's  no  chance  of  that 
woman  turning  up  and  making  a  scene  over  the 
body.'  Perkins  answered  that  he  did  not  think 
so;  that  she  wasn't  that  kind  of  a  woman.  'Well/ 
the  other  man  went  on,  'it  would  be  a  pretty 

208 


"The  Obligation  of  the  Truth" 

howdy-do  if,  after  all  the  trouble  we've  gone  to  to 
keep  this  thing  hushed  up,  she  should  turn  hyster- 
ical, or  want  to  advertise  herself,  and  give  it  all 
away.  I  think  something  ought  to  be  done  to 
guard  against  any  such  possibility.  Suppose  she's 
one  of  the  many  who  are  crazy  for  newspaper 
notoriety  or  to  go  on  the  stage!  Suppose  she  has 
letters;  she  ought  to  be  made  to  give  them  up. 
Then  if  her  vanity  leads  her  to  say  she  is  the 
woman  on  whose  account  the  Governor  was  mur- 
dered, she'll  have  nothing  to  show  in  evidence.  I 
tell  you,  I  know  that  type  of  woman.  Having  no 
reputation  to  lose,  they  don't  care  how  they  tear 
down  the  reputations  of  others,  dead  or  alive,  to 
feed  their  abominable  vanity.'  Then  Perkins 
said  something  more  about  her  being  a  different 
kind  of  woman.  But  nothing  mattered  to  me 
then.  It  was — awful,  Bruce!  Imagine  a  boy  of 
fifteen,  broken-hearted  over  his  father's  tragic 
death,  hearing  such  a  hideous  account  of  that 
death — that  it  was  not  martyrdom,  but — but  retri- 
bution! I  was  too  young  to  know  much  of  the 
world,  to  know  how  to  make  any  allowances  for 
the  human  weaknesses  of  a  big,  good  man.  I 
thought  my  father,  whom  I  had  adored,  had  been 
a  hypocrite!  Imagine  me,  through  all  the  pane- 
gyric of  the  days  that  followed,  keeping  my  heart- 
breaking knowledge  to  myself!  Imagine  the  years 
of  my  brooding  adolescence,  when  I  fought  that 

209 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

thing  like  a  demon  and  couldn't  ask  counsel  of  a 
soul.  By  and  by,  I  came  to  understand;  and  as  I 
did,  I  think  I  loved  my  father  more  passionately 
than — than  I  could  have  done  if  I  had  never 
known.  But  until  to-day  I  never  knew  that  Rose 
knew — or  that  my  mother  had  known;  I  don't 
know  now  if  Johnny  does." 

"  Do  you  know  how  Rose  found  out  ? " 
Davy  winced.  "Yes,"  he  said;  "my  mother 
told  her.  It  was — it  was  a — a  dreadful  thing  to 
do,  but  mother  said  she  had  to  have  some  one  to 
talk  to  about  it.  She — the  shock  had  quite  un- 
done her.  The  fact  is,  Bruce,  that  my  mother, 
while  an  excellent,  good  woman — in  many  ways 
— was  not  in  any  way,  hardly,  the  woman  to  be 
my  father's  wife.  All  the  things  she  could  do  for 
a  man  were  not  the  things  he  cared  about.  All 
the  things  he  wanted  from  a  woman  were  the 
things  she  did  not  know  how  to  give.  I  don't 
know  anything  about  that  other  woman;  but  as 
I've  come  to  realize  what  the  loneliness  of  his  life 
must  have  been — what  agony  he  must  have  en- 
dured that  summer  of  the  strike — I  find  myself 
hoping  that  he  got  something  that  was  truly  satis- 
fying from  that  woman  for  whom  he  gave  his  life. 
I  hope  this  isn't  shockingly  wrong  in  me,  or  shock- 
ing disrespectful  to  my  poor  mother " 

"I  don't  think  it  is  either,"   Bruce  reassured 
him.     "Have   you    any   idea   how   your   mother 

210 


"The  Obligation  of  the  Truth" 

found  out  about  the  other  woman  ?  You  see,  I'm 
just  trying  to  learn  if  there  is  any  existing  evidence, 
or  if  it's  all  a  matter  of  hearsay.  If  Prichard  has 
nothing  to  quote  but  some  vague  whisperings, 
he'll  hardly  dare  offer  them  against  the  belief 
that  has  been  unchallenged  for  fifteen  years." 

Davy's  brow  knitted;  he  was  thinking  intensely. 
"That's  right,"  he  said;  "I  hadn't  realized  that. 
I  don't  know  what  Dudley  has — but  I  dare  say 
there'll  be  some  way  to  find  out.  And  Rose 
didn't  say  how  mother  learned  what  she  knew — 
wait  a  minute!  I'll  ask  her." 

"Maybe" — Bruce  laid  a  detaining  hand  on 
Davy's  arm — "maybe  we  ought  not  to  bother 
her — about  this — right  now." 

Davy  shook  himself  gently  free.  "What  do 
you  suppose  she's  doing?"  he  reminded.  "Going 
over  and  over  and  over  this  in  her  own  mind. 
She  knows  you  are  here — I  told  her.  And  I  asked 
her  if  she  had  any  objection  to  my  making  a  con- 
fidant of  you,  and  she  said  no." 

He  was  gone  for  several  minutes,  during  which, 
Bruce  was  sure,  he  was  giving  Rose  every  consol- 
ing aspect  that  the  case  had  taken  on  in  talking  it 
over  with  a  friend. 

When  Davy  came  back  his  face  was  a  study — 
in  mingled  relief  and  humiliation. 

"It  seems,"  he  began,  and  the  shame  he  suf- 
fered made  him  flush  hotly,  "that  there  was  no — 

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Children  of  To-Morrow 

no  actual  evidence  presented  to  my  mother.  She 
— she  got  her  intimation  of  the  truth  from — an 
anonymous  letter." 

Bruce  looked  away  from  Davy,  and  out  of  the 
window,  trying  to  think  of  something  that  could 
be  said. 

"I — I —  Don't  think  too  hard  of  her,"  Davy 
begged.  "But  mother  was — was  that  kind  of  a 
woman.  Some  of  it  was  in  her  blood,  I  know — 
from  generations  back.  And  some  of  it  was  in 
her  training.  In  fact,  I  don't  think  she  had  any 
idea  how — how  heinous  it  was  to  believe  an 
anonymous  letter  that  besmirched  the  memory  of 
her  husband.  I  suppose  she  made  what  furtive 
efforts  she  could  to  prove  its  truth.  But  what 
those  efforts  were,  I  don't  know.  My  poor  mother 
was  not  a  judicious  woman,  Bruce.  I — I  don't 
know  what — what  written  evidence  she  may  have 
put  into  circulation  in  her — her  efforts  to  learn 
the  truth." 

Bruce  repressed  an  exclamation  of  dismay. 
"If  you'll  allow  me,  Davy,"  he  offered,  "I'll  try 
to  find  out  all  I  can  for  you.  I  can  go  about  it  as 
you  direct,  but  with  less  embarrassment  than  you 
would  feel  in  pursuing  the  investigation." 

Davy  wrung  Norbury's  hand  with  a  fervor  of 
grateful  acceptance  he  could  not  otherwise  express. 

"Now,  first  of  all,"  Bruce  began,  "who  is  there, 
that  you  know,  who  knew  your  father — some  one  you 

212 


"The  Obligation  of  the  Truth" 

could  trust  me  to  go  to  ?  We  want  to  learn,  if  we  can, 
how  generally  these  whisperings  have  got  around." 

Davy  thought  for  a  minute.  "There's  Mr. 
Penhallow,"  he  suggested.  "He  knew  both  my 
parents  intimately.  I'd  be  glad  to  know  what 
he  thinks.  And  I  trust  him  absolutely.  Ansel 
Rodman  didn't  know  my  father,  but  he  knew 
many  of  my  father's  friends.  And  at  the  time  of 
father's  death,  Rodman  was  in  a  position  to  hear 
anything  that  was  talked  over  among  writing 
men — the  superior  journalists,  editors,  and  so  on 
— you  know;  the  kind  of  talk  you  and  I  hear 
about  public  occurrences  to-day — the  under  side 
of  the  story  that  doesn't  get  into  print.  Then 
there's  Ballard  Creighton — a  man  we've  just  met. 
He's  an  actor  now;  he  was  a  laborer  then,  and 
in  that  strike.  He'd  know  if  anything  ever  got 
out  among  the  working  men  who  revere  my 
father's  memory  so.  You  know  Rodman  well. 
Penhallow  you  have  met,  I'm  sure.  Creighton 
I'll  introduce  you  to.  Rodman  and  Creighton 
are  big  men.  I'm  not  afraid  of  their  judgment 
on  any  man — least  of  all  on  my  father,  whose  own 
bigness  they  know  how  to  comprehend.  And 
Penhallow  is  delicate.  He  knows  furniture  better 
than  he  knows  men.  But  his  every  instinct  is 
fine,  and  he's  true  blue." 

"That's  splendid !     Now  we'll  lay  a  few  counter- 
mines for  Mr.  Dudley  Prichard." 

213 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  WEAK  AND  THE    STRONG 

WHEN  the  Bristows  came  to  New  York  and 
looked  for  a  place  to  live,  they  were  as 
ignorant  as  most  newcomers  to  the  city  about 
neighborhoods  and  their  social  values.  Some  day, 
one  thinks,  there  will  be  a  Bureau  of  Social  Ser- 
vice where  the  newcomers  may  find  such  things 
out;  then  ladies  from  up-State,  in  New  York  on 
a  shopping  tour,  will  not  innocently  give  their 
address  as  one  of  those  Seventh  Avenue  hotels 
so  abandoned  to  fast  chorus  ladies  that  the  hotel 
name  is  almost  like  a  brand;  and  gentlemen  from 
Montana  will  not  bring  their  families  to  New 
York  "to  get  acquainted,"  and  install  them  in  a 
locality  where  "nobody"  goes — or,  rather,  where 
only  nobodies  ever  go.  The  sophisticated  New 
Yorker  who  knows  little  or  nothing  except  New 
York  is  disinclined  to  think  respectfully  of  any 
one  to  whom  his  city  is  new.  If  you  haven't  been 
to  New  York  before  you  are  undeniably  a  "  Rube"; 
and  if  you  have  been  there  and  then  have  found 
it  possible  to  live  elsewhere,  there  must  be  some- 
thing the  matter  with  your  intelligence.  So  he  is 

214 


The  Weak  and  the  Strong 

patronizingly  "difficult"  to  the  newcomer;  and, 
familiarity  with  New  York  being  his  sole  standard 
of  intelligence,  he  judges  each  man  by  the  neigh- 
borhood where  he  lives.  Take  as  an  instance 
Seventh  Avenue.  You  may  board  at  Seventh 
Avenue  and  Seventeenth  Street  and  the  Manhat- 
tanite  will  judge  that  you  are  living  in  a  rather 
nice,  genteel  house,  in  a  rather  nice,  respectable 
neighborhood;  perhaps  he  will  infer  that  you  live 
there  because  you  work  somewhere  within  walk- 
ing distance;  he  can  pretty  nearly  "place"  you, 
financially  and  socially,  if  you  tell  him  your  exact 
number — or,  rather,  he  will  think  that  he  can. 
If  you  live  at  Seventh  Avenue  and  Twenty-seventh 
Street  you  are  almost  inevitably  a  frequent  visitor 
— under  stress — to  the  Tenderloin  Police  Court, 
on  a  charge  of  drunk  and  disorderly  or  of  violating 
the  tenement-house  act;  if  at  Seventh  Avenue  and 
Thirty-seventh,  you  belong,  presumably,  some- 
where in  the  social  organization  of  show  girls  to 
whom  salary  is  a  mere  bagatelle;  if  at  Seventh 
Avenue  and  Forty-seventh  Street,  you  probably 
have  affiliation  with  some  of  the  small  businesses 
Long  Acre  Square  supports;  if  at  Seventh  Avenue 
and  Fifty-seventh  Street,  you  may  be  an  artist — 
for  in  them  that  vicinity  abounds.  And  so  on. 

The  Bristows  wanted  to  be  near  the  theatres; 
for  there,  they  knew,  Emily  must  look  for  work. 
The  house  where  they  found  a  room  within  their 

215 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

means  and  tolerable  for  living  in  was  in  a  block 
as  frankly  "Tenderloin"  as  any  in  the  theatre 
district.  But  they  were  unaware  of  this;  and  in 
their  particular  case  it  made  very  little  difference. 
For  the  house  itself  was  respectably  kept,  and  as 
the  Bristows  did  not  expect  to  cultivate  any  calling 
acquaintance,  it  served  them  well  enough. 

They  had  the  large  back  room  on  the  second 
floor,  a  south  room  and  sunny.  The  outlook  was 
across  back  yards  to  other  back  windows;  but  it 
was  rather  more  interesting  than  that  which  the 
front  of  the  house  afforded:  across  a  narrow,  unin- 
teresting street  to  other  house  fronts  depressingly 
alike.  At  the  back,  things  happened.  The  house 
fronts  suggested  the  superficiality  of  life  where 
everybody  was  trying  to  be  like  everybody  else. 
In  the  freedom  of  the  rear  windows  and  back 
yards,  individuality  ventured  to  assert  itself;  and 
people  who  watched  were  free  to  guess  why,  in 
two  rooms  whose  occupants  paid,  presumably, 
about  the  same  rent,  the  undershirt  that  one  hung 
up  in  her  window  to  dry  was  ribbed  cotton — the 
two-for-a-quarter  kind  in  cheap  stores — and  the 
undershirt  that  the  other  displayed  was  of  Italian 
silk,  pink,  probable  price  three-fifty. 

Mrs.  Bristow  was  much  in  the  room.  When 
she  had  read  books  until  her  head  ached  or  her 
eyes  were  strained  unbearably,  she  could  sit 
at  her  window  and  read  life — oftentimes  with  a 

216 


The  Weak  and  the  Strong 

sense  of  wonder  that  so  little  of  its  vividness  got 
into  books. 

The  room  had  no  bed — only  two  cots  which 
were  covered  by  day  with  "tapestry"  spreads  and 
made  to  look  like  couches.  There  was  a  bureau 
of  golden  "oak,"  with  varnish  that  inclined  to 
get  sticky,  the  whole  thing  frankly  redolent  of 
"easy  payments."  A  marble-topped  washstand, 
in  a  wall-niche,  had  hot  and  cold  running  water. 
The  woodwork  of  the  room  was  "grained"  in 
imitation  of  walnut.  The  paper  on  the  walls  was 
quite  dreadful,  as  paper  on  walls  where  the  way- 
farer tarries  is  almost  sure  to  be;  but  it  was  fairly 
new  and  clean.  The  fadedness  of  the  old  Brus- 
sels carpet  was  its  one  redeeming  quality;  Mrs. 
Bristow  had  paid  out  of  her  own  pinched  little 
purse  to  have  a  half-peck  of  dust  sucked  from 
the  carpet  by  a  vacuum  cleaner. 

For  the  rest,  there  was  a  Morris  chair  with  vel- 
veteen cushions  which  would  have  made  Morris 
very,  very  sad;  and  a  rocking-chair  with  a  seat  of 
stamped  leatherette;  and  a  writing-desk,  also  of 
the  favored  "golden  oak,"  whose  varnish  was  no 
more  steadfast  than  the  bureau's,  and  whose  thin 
legs  wobbled  wildly  when  any  one  so  grossly  mis- 
took its  purpose  as  to  try  to  write  on  it.  Lastly, 
there  was  a  small  table  on  which  Mrs.  Bristow 
kept  the  books  sent  her  for  review.  She  often 
thought  amusedly  of  that  table  and  its  ever-chang- 

217 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

ing  occupants.  How  many  kinds  they  were !  And 
how  inevitable  seemed  their  moving  on!  There 
was  seldom  one  that  made  itself  at  home  in  this 
room.  And  yet,  how  many  starved  lives  were  lived 
in  rooms  like  this! 

Since  that  Sunday  evening  at  the  Inneses', 
Mrs.  Bristow  had  left  her  room  scarcely  at  all. 
She  was  in  a  state  of  health  far  from  rugged,  and 
the  shocks  she  had  nerved  herself  to  withstand 
had  made  a  deep  drain  upon  her  store  of  energy. 
She  had  seemed  to  age,  in  those  two  weeks,  per- 
ceptibly. 

Olivia  was  still  a  pretty  woman.  At  fifty,  her 
skin  was  still  soft  and  the  flesh  beneath  it  firm. 
Her  baby-fine  brown  hair  was  not  yet  touched 
with  gray.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  grow  bigger  and 
more  brightly  shining  with  every  year  of  life  she 
lived.  But  she  no  longer  wore  collarless  blouses 
— though  they  were  in  fashion  again — and  the 
throat  her  "boned"  lace  collars  hid  had  lost  its 
girlish  loveliness.  Her  cheeks  still  bloomed  pink, 
though,  when  she  was  excited;  and  her  zest  for 
life  was  keen.  She  no  longer  wanted  to  live 
much  life,  but  she  was  unwearied  in  her  eager- 
ness to  watch  life — to  see  it  coil  its  strange  tangles 
and  unfold  its  inevitable  rewards.  She  hoped 
that  personally  she  was  done  with  life;  she  felt 
that  she  was,  except  in  so  far  as  she  had  yet 
to  live  through  Emily.  But  her  interest  in  the 

218 


The  Weak  and  the  Strong 

world  was  so  great  that  she  often  said  she  would 
like  to  be  a  kind  of  Perpetual  Intelligence,  so  she 
might  never  have  to  go  away  without  knowing 
the  end  of  the  serial  stories  that  were  always 
unfolding  themselves  about  her. 

When  she  had  taken  her  daughter  by  the  hand 
and  led  her  away  from  all  they  knew,  into  exile, 
she  made  the  resolve  that,  in  so  far  as  it  was  possi- 
ble for  a  mother  to  be  everything  in  the  world  to 
a  child,  she  would  be  that  to  Constance,  who  was 
henceforth  to  be  called  by  her  first  given  name, 
Emily.  And  she  had  been  so  unswervingly  true 
to  this  purpose  that  she  had  neglected  no  possi- 
ble way  by  which  she  might  catch  all  the  lights 
of  life  and  reflect  them,  prismatically,  to  Emily. 
Emily  would  never  know  what  companionship  she 
had  enjoyed  until  she  had  tried  to  find  its  like  in 
another. 

During  these  last  two  weeks,  however,  Olivia 
had  felt  piteously  unequal  to  her  struggle.  A 
sense  as  of  something  impending  was  always  with 
her.  She  was  torn  between  wanting  to  keep  away 
from  the  Inneses  and  wanting  to  go  to  them.  She 
felt  that  she  must  leave  town,  and  yet  she  knew 
it  would  be  unbearable  now  to  go  away — not  to 
know  what  was  happening  among  these  children 
whose  destiny  was  so  linked  with  hers.  She  was 
fearful  of  what  that  man  Prichard  might  uncover. 
And  yet,  if  she  were  to  flee,  what  questioning 

219 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

might  it  not  excite!  Emily  was  happy  here,  and 
she  felt  sure  that  even  if  Dudley  Prichard  found 
out  anything,  no  one  could  ever  connect  them 
with  the  Bardeens  who  had  vanished  so  mysteri- 
ously immediately  after  the  tragedy. 

But  in  the  ceaseless  questioning  and  cross-ques- 
tioning that  went  on  in  her  mind,  by  day  and  by 
night,  these  two  weeks,  she  seemed  to  be  wearing 
herself  out. 

Emily  was  much  absorbed  in  other  things,  but 
not  so  much  so  that  her  mother's  evident  weari- 
ness and  weakness  failed  to  give  her  concern. 

"You're  sticking  too  close  to  those  miserable 
books,"  Emily  declared.  "For  the  pittance  you 
get  from  them,  it  isn't  worth  while." 

But  Olivia  said  she  enjoyed  reading  the  books 
— was  glad  to  have  something  to  do. 

"Then  you're  worrying  about  that  Prichard 
business." 

In  Emily's  mind  this  was  a  grievance,  and  her 
tone  said  as  much — made  it,  in  fact,  an  accusation. 
She  was  particularly  desirous  of  forgetting  Johnny 
Innes's  paternity,  and  her  own.  And  she  was 
fretful  when  anything  served  to  remind  her  that 
her  mother  could  not  forget. 

Like  most  children  who  have  been  made  the 
centre  and  circumference  of  the  world  by  a  parent 
so  lavishly  able  to  give  love  as  Olivia  was,  Emily 
was  appreciably  the  worse  off.  It  is  quite  as 

220 


The  Weak  and  the  Strong 

wholesome  to  make  children  earn  love  as  it  is 
to  make  them  earn  money — and  as  much  more 
necessary  as  love  is  more  necessary  than  money. 
But  the  most  doting  parents  seem  to  overlook  this. 
There  is  often,  no  doubt,  a  touch  of  divinity  in 
the  parental  love  that  goes  out  most  yearningly  to 
the  least  worthy  child;  but  there  is  often  a  deal 
of  human  selfishness  in  it,  too.  It  may  be  selfish 
pride  and  unwillingness  to  see  how  sadly  they 
have  failed  as  parents;  it  may  be  sloth;  or  it 
may  be  egotism  of  the  kind  that  prides  itself  on 
how  much  it  can  give  and  not  on  how  much  it  can 
make  a  weaker  soul  worthy  to  receive.  There 
has  been  a  lot  of  maudlin  sentiment  extant  about 
some  relationships  the  simple  truth  about  which 
is  that  they  are  selfish  to  the  core.  Most  relation- 
ships in  which  one  person  grows  steadily  stronger 
and  more  seemingly  unselfish,  and  the  other  grows 
steadily  more  dependent  and  less  dependable,  are 
proper  subjects  for  inquiry;  there's  something  the 
matter  with  the  stronger  part  of  the  relationship. 
As  has  been  profoundly  observed,  "Legs  was 
made  to  stand  on."  It  is  a  frustration  of  destiny 
when  any  one  pair  of  legs  insists  on  doing  the 
standing  for  two  pairs. 

Olivia  had  developed  herself  magnificently;  but 
she  had  done  so  at  the  expense  of  her  child.  She 
was  too  keen  a  woman  not  to  have  her  flashes  of 
realization  in  which  this  fact  was  plain  to  her; 

221 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

and  she  meant  to  do  better.  But  the  habit  of 
abnegation  is  a  hard  one  to  shake  off;  the  process 
of  "unspoiling"  is  difficult  to  begin.  It  was  par- 
ticularly hard  for  Olivia,  because  whenever  she 
tried  to  harden  her  heart  against  Emily's  selfish- 
ness, she  remembered  how  much  Emily  had  had 
to  suffer  from  her  selfishness  of  long  ago.  Out 
of  a  lifetime  of  self-sacrifice  and  struggle,  Olivia 
often  bitterly  reflected,  she  had  one  page  of  self- 
indulgence  and  yielding.  But  from  that  brief  self- 
ishness what  ruin  had  been  wrought! 

Emily  did  not  tell  her  mother  how  often  she  had 
engagements  with  Johnny  Innes.  She  said — to 
her  accusing  other  self — that  every  mention  of 
Johnny  in  any  connection  with  herself  caused  her 
mother  to  "worry";  and  she  ought  not  to  be 
worried. 

Making  daytime  engagements  was  easy  enough. 
Emily  had  only  to  say  she  was  called  for  rehearsal, 
or  that  she  was  going  with  one  of  the  girls  of  the 
company  to  luncheon  or  to  shop  or  to  visit  a 
friend.  Evenings  after  the  theatre,  when  Johnny 
wanted  her — as  he  so  frequently  did — to  go  out 
with  him  for  a  bite  of  supper,  it  was  more  diffi- 
cult. Now  and  then  it  would  do  to  say  that  some 
friends  of  Pauline  Bartlett's  or  of  Lucy  Truman's 
had  invited  several  of  the  girls  out,  Emily  among 
them.  But  that  would  not  do  duty  oftener  than 
semi-occasionally.  And  Olivia  always  expected 

222 


The  Weak  and  the  Strong 

some  kind  of  an  explanation.  She  was  not  trying 
to  make  her  girl  lead  a  conventual  life,  but  she 
was  trying  to  make  Emily  feel  that  giving  her 
mother  her  confidence  about  what  she  was  doing 
would  be  a  safeguard  to  her  against  doing  things 
she  wouldn't  like  to  tell.  Emily  couldn't  bring 
her  acquaintances  home  for  her  mother  to  see. 
The  landlady's  rules  were  strictly  against  men 
callers  being  taken  to  rooms  even  when  a  mother 
was  chaperoning;  the  Tenderloin  was  full  of 
mothers  whose  chaperonage  of  their  daughters' 
vice  was  not  only  complacent  but  eager.  And 
Emily  wouldn't  let  any  of  the  girls  see  where  she 
lived;  for  most  of  them  had  homes  in  New  York 
— their  parents'  homes  or  some  attractive  little 
apartment  nook  they  shared  with  another  bachelor 
maid — and  while  she  had  to  admit  that  she  was 
boarding,  she  did  not  feel  obliged  to  let  any  one 
know  just  how  cheaply  she  was  doing  it.  Emily 
was  a  thorough  exponent  of  the  spirit  which  makes 
many  in  her  profession,  and  in  others,  hope- 
lessly "cheap,"  and  others  as  hopelessly  reckless. 
She  was  ashamed  to  be  known  for  what  she  was 
— a  girl  new-come  from  the  antipodes,  who  was 
struggling  to  get  a  foothold  in  the  theatre  world. 
She  had  "talked  big"  about  what  she  was  in 
New  Zealand.  She  didn't  want  any  one  to  know 
how  impressed  she  was  with  having  got  into  this 
excellent  company.  She  was  playing  her  small 

223 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

part  with  an  air  of  condescension,  as  if  she  did 
it  merely  to  accommodate  the  manager.  The 
atmosphere  in  which — or  in  despite  of  which — 
some  of  the  loveliest  girls  in  the  land  have  grown 
to  dignity  and  sweetness  difficult  to  surpass  was 
a  bad  atmosphere  for  Emily.  The  weak  and  un- 
worthy things  in  her  flourished  in  that  Rialto  air, 
and  grew  like  Jonah's  gourd;  the  better  things  in 
her  languished.  It  would  have  been  precisely 
the  same  had  Emily  been  a  "saleslady";  she 
would  have  sold  gloves  or  handkerchiefs  with  the 
same  air  of  condescension  to  the  public,  would 
have  posed  among  the  other  girls  in  the  same  kind 
of  light — not  as  one  who  must  earn  her  own  bread, 
make  her  own  place  in  the  world,  but  as  one  who 
was  whiling  away  time  for  fun  and  feathers. 

Olivia  knew  comparatively  little  of  this.  The 
exigencies  which  made  it  impossible  for  her  to 
share  Emily's  social  life  made  it  inevitable  that 
she  should  be  almost  profoundly  ignorant  of  the 
real  Emily.  The  parent  who  habitually  sees  a 
child  among  his  superiors,  sees  very  little  of  the 
child.  It  is  what  the  child  shows  among  his  peers 
and  his  inferiors  that  tells  the  tale. 

If  Olivia  had  known  that  the  clandestine  habit 
was  getting  its  grip  upon  Emily,  she  would  have 
been  spurred  to  superhuman  effort  to  break  it. 
But  she  did  not  know. 

Late  in  the  week  that  had  begun  with  the  dis- 
224 


covery  of  Catherine  and  gone  on  to  the  distressful 
revelations  of  Prichard,  Rose  went  up  to  see  the 
Bristows. 

"I  was  afraid  you  hadn't  been  well,"  she  said. 
Unmistakably  Olivia  had  not  been. 

Mrs.  Bristow  protested  that  her  indisposition 
was  nothing  to  be  taken  account  of.  "I  don't  go 
out  enough,"  she  admitted.  "I  must  mend  my 
slothful  ways." 

"Begin  now,"  Rose  entreated.  "Come  out 
with  me.  It  takes  real  moral  energy  to  make 
one's  self  go  out  alone  just  for  exercise.  I  know 
— because  I  don't  do  it!  But  let's  go  somewhere 
together — you  take  me  and  I'll  take  you.  We 
both  need  it." 

Mrs.  Bristow  smiled  gratefully  at  her.  "  I  think 
*  let's'  is  one  of  the  delightfullest  words  in  the 
language,"  she  declared.  "  '  Let's' ! — I  love 
it!" 

"So  do  I,"  Rose  agreed.  "Now,  'let's*  see. 
I  want  to  take  you  somewhere  that  you  haven't 
been." 

"That  will  be  easy.  I  have  been  hardly  any- 
where at  all." 

The  eagerness  of  her  was  pathetic  to  Rose;  it 
bespoke  a  hungriness  she  thought  that  she  could 
understand. 

It  was  early  in  the  afternoon,  a  brilliant  Indian- 
summer  day,  more  characteristic  of  the  Novem- 

225 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

bers  we  know  than  are  "the  melancholy  days" 
which  the  poet  calls  "the  saddest  of  the  year." 

Rose  thought  intently  for  a  few  moments.  "I 
wonder  what  you  would  like  best  to  do,"  she 
speculated.  "Would  you  like  to  go  up,  on  top  of 
a  Fifth  Avenue  motor  bus,  to  Central  Park,  and 
go  into  the  Metropolitan  Museum  for  a  while  and 
look  at  some  pictures,  then  come  out  and  browse 
around  in  the  park  ?  Or  would  you  like  to  go, 
say  up  to  Fordham,  and  see  the  Poe  cottage  and 
something  of  the  tremendous  work  of  bringing  the 
new  water  supply  into  New  York  ?  There's  a 
dear,  quaint  old  church  there  and  a  churchyard 
where  the  low,  unkempt  graves  will  be  strewn 
with  russet  fallen  leaves.  Or  would  you  like  to 
go  to  call  on  some  artist  friends  of  ours  who  have 
charming  studios  ?  They  have  log  fires  and  ingle- 
nooks,  and  they'll  brew  us  some  excellent  tea, 
with  the  aid  of  a  samovar.  Perhaps  that  is  nicer 
to  leave  for  a  wintry  afternoon  when  there's  no 
pleasure  to  be  had  out-of-doors.  Maybe  you'd 
like  to  'prowl,'  as  I  call  it,  on  the  lower  East  Side! 
Maybe  you'd  like  to  go  down  to  the  Battery  and 
among  some  of  the  old  Revolutionary  haunts,  and 
take  a  long  ferry  ride — there's  a  beautiful  long  one 
that  goes  to  Staten  Island !  New  York  of  to-day 
doesn't  half  appreciate  the  Battery.  And  we  could 
go  to  Fraunce's  Tavern — Washington's  head-quar- 
ters— to  dine.  Or " 

226 


The  Weak  and  the  Strong 

"Oh,  please!"  Olivia  begged,  "don't  suggest 
another  thing.  I'm  bewildered  now  to  know  how 
to  choose.  Indeed,  I  decline  to  try." 

"When  must  you  be  back?"  Rose  asked.  "I 
mean :  how  early  do  you  dine  ?  And  do  you 
ever  leave  Miss  Emily  to  dine  alone  ? " 

"Emily  is  dining  out  to-night/'  Mrs.  Bristow 
answered.  "A  girl  in  the  company — Lucy  Tru- 
man— has  asked  her  to  dine  at  her  apartment. 
She  and  a  girl  who  is  a  clever  fashion  artist  live 
together,  Emily  says,  and  have  a  fascinating  little 
place." 

"That's  fine,"  cried  Rose — meaning  not  Lucy's 
domestic  arrangement,  but  the  fact  that  Mrs. 
Bristow  was  free.  "Johnny  is  dining  out,  and 
I'll  call  up  Davy  and  ask  him  to  meet  us  some- 
where for  dinner.  Maybe  he  can  bring  some  one 
with  him  whom  you'd  like  to  meet — Mr.  Rod- 
man, perhaps." 

She  'phoned  to  Davy  from  the  first  drug  store 
they  came  to. 

"Where  shall  I  meet  you?"  Davy  asked. 

"Wherever  you  say.  Mrs.  Bristow  can't  choose, 
because  all  the  places  are  strange  to  her.  And 
I  don't  care,  because  they  are  all  familiar  to 
me." 

Davy  pondered.  "I  wish  I  knew — Lafayette, 
Cecchina's,  Roversi's,  Guffanti's,  Moquin's,  Beaux- 
Arts.  Do  you  suppose  she'd  care  for  Martin's  ?" 

227 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"No,  not  so  much  as  some  of  the  others.  Let's 
say  Guffanti's." 

"All  right.  Make  it  as  near  six  as  you  can. 
After  six-thirty  there's  never  anything — we'd  have 
to  wait  and  wait." 

"We'll  be  there." 

They  went  to  Fordham;  and  the  hours  out- 
doors, in  the  warm  sunshine,  did  both  of  them  a 
world  of  good — physical  good  and  spiritual  good, 
for  in  the  open  they  discovered  their  points  of  kin- 
ship rapidly.  They  found  that  they  had  both 
heard  the  same  bird  sing,  albeit  not  in  the  same 
wood. 

The  early  dusk  was  upon  them  when  they 
turned  their  faces  cityward.  They  returned  by 
the  Third  Avenue  "L"  rather  than  go  into  the 
noisy  Subway.  There  is  much  to  be  seen  on  a 
ride  in  from  Fordham  on  a  Third  Avenue  "L"; 
there  is  nothing  to  be  seen  in  the  Subway. 

At  Twenty-eighth  Street  they  got  off  and  took 
the  little  antiquated  horse-car  that  jingles  across 
town,  east  on  Twenty-eighth  Street  and  west  on 
Twenty-ninth.  This  they  did  partly  because  they 
were  tired  after  their  hours  of  tramping  and  partly 
for  the  novelty  of  the  experience — which  was  not 
quite  so  rich  in  contrasts,  however,  as  when  one 
comes  up  out  of  the  roar  of  the  "tube,"  where 
steel  express  trains  flash  through  space  almost 

228 


The  Weak  and  the  Strong 

like  projectiles  from  a  gun,  and  continues  his 
journey  in  one  of  these  bobbing  little  cars  left 
over  from  a  transportation  regime  now  almost  as 
ancient  as  that  of  the  palanquin. 

Their  destination  was  Seventh  Avenue  near 
Twenty-sixth  Street.  They  debarked  from  their 
vehicle  at  Twenty-ninth  Street  and  walked  down 
the  avenue. 

An  old  woman,  white-headed,  sat  on  the  curb- 
stone and  wept  dejectedly;  she  was  maudlin 
drunk.  A  young  woman,  hardly  out  of  her  early 
girlhood,  but  frightfully  debauched  and  not  far 
from  Potter's  Field,  was  being  roughly  handled 
by  a  policeman;  she  was  resisting  arrest  for  solic- 
iting on  the  street.  Evil-looking  loafers  lounged 
about  the  doorways  of  cheap  groggeries.  Un- 
kempt women  and  children  came  and  went,  in  and 
out  of  dingy  shops  and  dark  entrances  to  tene- 
ments. 

Just  below  Twenty-sixth  Street  several  taxicabs 
and  private  motors  stood,  waiting.  Two  or  three 
others,  within  a  minute,  drew  up  at  a  door,  were 
emptied  of  well-dressed  people,  and  hurried  away. 

In  this  wilderness  of  squalor  and  vice  an  Italian 
kept  a  little  hotel.  He  had  once  been  a  saloon- 
keeper who  served  a  few  kinds  of  food  at  Kis  saloon 
tables:  soup,  whose  fragrant  memory  persisted; 
spaghetti  that  was  like  no  other  spaghetti  any- 
where; chicken— oh!  quite  indescribable,  that 

229 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

chicken.  A  few  of  the  newspaper  boys  patron- 
ized the  saloon;  they  are  good  advertisers.  From 
lip  to  lip  passed  the  word  of  that  food  which 
was  so  cheap,  so  excellent.  Business  grew.  The 
little  low  barroom  was  extended;  the  store  next 
door  was  rented,  and  a  wide  doorway  broken 
through;  the  back  yards  were  encroached  upon. 
To  pay  for  all  this  the  prices  of  food  were  doubled, 
but  still  they  were  cheap  enough.  The  bar  con- 
tinued, but  a  wholesale  liquor  business  evolved. 
The  overflow  of  diners  went  upstairs,  and  a  hotel 
eventuated. 

All  classes  went  there;  the  young  clerk  allow- 
ing himself  a  weekly  "spread";  working  women, 
in  pairs  or  trios  or  quartettes,  out  for  a  little  jolli- 
fication; married  folk  celebrating  an  anniversary; 
newspaper  people  and  their  friends;  foreigners  in 
great  numbers  and  of  many  sorts;  jurists  and 
sporting  gentry;  musicians  and  feather  importers; 
salesmen  showing  their  country  customers  the 
town,  and  women  whom  the  town  had  nothing  to 
show. 

Davy  was  waiting  for  them  in  the  narrow  hall- 
way inside  the  entrance;  Ansel  Rodman  was  with 
him.  They  had  engaged  a  table,  placed  advan- 
tageously for  seeing. 

Mrs.  Bristow  was  as  excited  as  a  child;  her 
cheeks  were  flushed  a  charming  pink  and  her 
eyes  were  as  bright  as  stars. 

230 


The  Weak  and  the  Strong 

She  was  entranced  with  looking.  The  busy, 
busy  bar  was  close  by,  and  she  could  watch  the 
deft  haste  of  the  bartenders  as  they  mixed  cock- 
tails and  gin  rickeys  and  other  American  drinks. 
The  Italian  orchestra  was  in  excellent  view;  and 
when  the  tenor  got  up  to  sing  "  Ciribirribino"  he 
seemed  to  be  singing  right  at  her.  She  could  see 
the  people  coming  in,  too.  The  rooms  filled 
rapidly,  and  soon  the  late  comers  had  either  to 
turn  disappointedly  away  or  to  wait  until  a  table 
was  vacated. 

They  led  Ansel  Rodman  into  speculation  about 
persons  sitting  near  them.  His  perceptions  were 
so  keen,  his  synthetic  powers  were  so  great,  that 
he  could  evolve  the  most  minutely  particularized 
probabilities  about  individuals  or  couples. 

When,  fearing  to  weary  him,  they  had  ceased 
inciting  him  to  do  this,  and  the  talk  had  flowed 
into  other  channels  than  those  suggested  by  their 
neighbors,  some  one  asked  him  a  question  to 
answer  which  he  had  to  recall  himself  sharply 
from  an  obvious  wandering. 

"I  beg  pardon/'  he  said.  "I  was  watching  a 
girl  in  the  next  room.  I  think  none  of  you  can 
see  her — but  I  can.  I  can't  see  who  she's  with, 
and  I  was  trying  to  guess.  That's  fun,  too,  when 
you  can  see  one  party  only  of  what  is  evidently  a 
duo.  It's  a  man  who's  with  her.  And  he  isn't 
her  father  or  her  brother  or  her  husband  or  her 

231 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

cousin  or  her  uncle  or — her  father-confessor. 
He's  young — the  expression  in  her  face  is  not  the 
expression  girls  wear  when  trying  to  make  old 
men  believe  they  like  them.  She's  in  love  with 
the  man  across  the  table  from  her.  And  she — 
yes,  she  knows  that  he's  in  love  with  her.  Ah, 
wait!  she's  getting  up;  here  they  come!" 

They  came.  The  girl  was  Emily  Bristow  and 
the  man  with  her  was  Johnny  Innes. 

Only  Rose  was  aware  of  any  embarrassment  in 
the  situation  for  Emily  and  Mrs.  Bristow.  But 
Rodman  was  distressed.  He  could  see  that  such 
a  relationship  as  he  had  surmised  between  the 
girl  and  the  young  man  was  by  no  means  an  ac- 
cepted fact  in  the  family  of  either  of  them;  and 
he  was  grieved  to  have  forced  a  revelation. 

Johnny  and  Emily  could  not  linger  long;  they 
had  just  a  comfortable  margin  of  time  in  which 
to  get  to  the  theatre.  When  they  were  gone, 
nothing  was  said  which  showed  any  remembrance 
of  Rodman's  speculations  about  them.  But  he 
knew  the  remembrance  persisted,  and  he  cursed 
himself  inwardly  for  a  clumsy  old  fool. 

The  remainder  of  their  dinner  was  eaten  under 
a  constraint  each  of  them  strove  to  break  and 
each  of  them  made  worse  by  his  striving. 

Rodman  suggested  taking  Mrs.  Bristow  on  a 
tour  of  some  of  the  foreigners'  theatres  in  New 

232 


The  Weak  and  the  Strong 

York,  but  she  said  she  was  afraid  to  undertake 
any  more  sight-seeing  then. 

"This  is  the  first  time  I  have  been  out  of  the 
house  in  nearly  two  weeks/*  she  explained,  "and 
I  know  I  must  not  be  greedy.  But  oh!  I  hope 
you'll  give  me  that  opportunity  some  other  time. 
You  don't  know  what  Spartan  resolution  is  re- 
quired to  say  no." 

"There  is  no  occasion  for  Spartan  suffering," 
he  answered  her.  "  I  am  always  doddering  around 
such  places — more  or  less — and  it  is  my  happiness 
when  I  can  find  some  one  who  cares  to  go  with 
me.  So  you  have  only  to  say  one  little  word 
whenever  you  want  to  go." 

They  left  her  at  her  door,  and  Rose's  thoughts 
went  with  her  up  to  the  cheerless  back  room. 


233 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"  JACK   THE    GIANT-KILLER  " 

IMMEDIATELY  that  she  and  Johnny  had  got 
outside,  Emily  began  to  cry. 

Johnny  was  dumfounded.  He  knew  that  Emily 
did  not  always  tell  her  mother  about  their  engage- 
ments, but  she  had  explained  to  him  that  that  was 
because  her  mother  would  wonder,  naturally,  why 
they  did  not  ask  her,  too.  "We  have  been  all  in 
all  to  each  other  for  so  long,"  she  said,  "that 
mother  can't  get  used  to  any  other  way.  And  of 
course  it's  hard  for  her  when  I  go  out  to  have  a 
good  time,  because  she  is  left  all  alone.  If  some 
one  asks  me  whom  she  doesn't  know,  she's  just 
as  lonely,  but  she  doesn't  feel  'left  out.'  But  if 
she  thought  I  was  leaving  her  so  much  to  be  with 
you  she  wouldn't  understand  why  she  wasn't 
asked,  too." 

"Good  gracious!"  Johnny  had  cried  when  this 
was  unfolded  to  him;  "mothers  must  be  reason- 
able. They  had  their  day;  they  should  be  willing 
to  let  their  daughters  have  a  day,  too." 

"Mother  didn't  have  much  of  a  'day,'  "  Emily 
had  rejoined.  "Her  girlhood  was  anxious  and 

234 


"Jack  the  Giant-Killer" 

hard-working.  She  says  the  only  youth  she  ever 
had  is  what  she's  had  with  me." 

Johnny  was  sorry.  He  liked  Mrs.  Bristow; 
but  three-cornered  parties  are  no  parties  at  all. 
He  didn't  care  by  what  evasions  of  the  truth  Emily 
salved  her  mother's  feelings — just  so  she  got  there. 

But  he  couldn't  understand  whj-  she  should  be 
so  agitated  now. 

"Your  mother  was  having  a  good  time,"  he 
reminded  Emily  when  they  had  got  a  taxi  and 
were  speeding  north.  "She  won't  care  if  you 
were  having  a  good  time,  too." 

"  But  I  had  told  her  a  lie,"  Emily  sobbed,  "  and 
she — she  won't  believe  what  I  tell  her  any  more." 

"Oh,  well!"  Johnny  expostulated.  "Tell  the 
truth,  then.  Why  shouldn't  you  go  out  to  dine 
with  me  ?  What's  there  about  me  to  make  an 
offense  of  it  ? " 

Emily  was  silent  in  her  corner  of  the  cab.  She 
was  thinking  hard — trying  to  weigh  the  probabili- 
ties if  she  told  the  truth.  But  she  was  afraid  to 
venture.  It  might  mean  that  Johnny  would  never 
speak  to  her  again. 

"Of  course,"  said  Johnny  haughtily,  from  his 
corner  of  the  cab,  "if  you  are  ashamed  to " 

"I'm  not!"  she  cried,  clutching  his  sleeve  en- 
treatingly. 

Johnny  looked  out  the  window.  They  were  at 
Thirty-fourth  Street.  In  a  minute  or  two  they 

235 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

would  have  reached  the  corner  of  Seventh  Avenue 
and  Fortieth  Street,  where  he  had  told  the  driver 
to  stop — to  avoid  gossip  he  never  drove  up  to  the 
stage  door  in  a  cab  with  Emily,  but  got  out  a 
block  away  and  strolled  in  on  foot  several  minutes 
after  she  had  disappeared  into  her  dressing-room. 
He  would  have  time  for  no  more  than  a  sentence 
or  two  now. 

"Wait  for  me  to-night/*  he  said. 

"I  can't  be  late  going  home." 

Johnny  made  no  reply.  As  he  admitted,  when 
taxed  with  using  his  silence  to  coerce,  "  My  pauses 
are  the  best  thing  I  do." 

The  cab  stopped  and  Johnny  sprang  out.  He 
thrust  a  dollar  into  the  driver's  hand  and  started 
away. 

"I'll  be  there!"  Emily  cried  imploringly. 

But  if  he  had  heard  her,  he  gave  no  sign. 

The  stage  door  was  on  Forty-first  Street.  Emily 
halted  the  cab  as  it  turned  the  corner  westward 
from  Seventh  Avenue. 

"I'll  get  out  here,"  she  said. 

The  driver  understood. 

She  loitered,  thinking  Johnny  would  come  along; 
but  he  didn't.  She  stood  before  the  mail  rack 
much  longer  than  was  necessary  to  see  that  there 
was  nothing  in  "  B."  Then  she  climbed  the  steep 
spiral  stairs  to  her  dressing-room. 

The  cast  was  large  and  Emily  was  an  unimpor- 
236 


"Jack  the  Giant-Killer" 

tant  member  of  it;  so  she  had  three  flights  of  the 
iron  steps  to  climb. 

The  girl  who  shared  the  room  with  her  was 
there.  Emily  hated  this  girl  to-night.  She  was 
Lucy  Truman. 

Lucy  was  reading  a  letter  when  Emily  came  in. 
She  looked  up  from  it  just  long  enough  to  say 
"  Good-evening." 

Emily  murmured  a  return  courtesy.  She  wished 
Lucy  had  a  dozen  letters — anything  to  keep  her 
absorbed  so  Emily  would  not  have  to  talk  to  her. 

But  Lucy  had  only  the  one. 

"This's  from  that  friend  I've  told  you  about,  who 
is  playing  in  London,"  she  announced  presently. 

"Is  it?'*  said  Emily  uninterestedly. 

"She  says,"  Lucy  went  on,  "that  she  doesn't 
see  how  she  can  ever  bear  to  come  back  here,  even 
though  the  salaries  are  so  much  better.  Over 
there  the  professional  people  have  such  a  grand 
time  socially." 

"Do  they?" 

Lucy  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  Emily,  whose 
face  she  could  see  in  the  mirror  above  her  make- 
up shelf. 

"Why,  you've  told  me  how  it  is  in  Australia 
and  New  Zealand,"  she  reminded.  "You  said 
that  English  people " 

Emily  was  fumbling  petulantly  among  the  arti- 
cles on  her  shelf. 

237 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"I  wish  I  knew  who  touches  my  things  after  I 
cover  them  up!"  she  mumbled. 

Lucy  knew  the  signs  of  irritation.  She  was  a 
gentle  girl,  with  the  strongest  kind  of  aversion  to 
anything  that  savored  of  a  dressing-room  row.  So 
she  went  back  to  the  reading  of  her  letter  as  if  she 
had  not  heard  Emily's  exclamation. 

When  she  had  finished  reading  it  she  put  it  in 
her  hand-bag  and  went  quietly  about  her  business. 
She  could  see  that  Emily  was  feeling  bad  about 
something;  the  only  sympathy  she  could  offer 
was  to  be  as  "nonexistent"  as  possible,  and  to 
seem  to  be  keeping  quiet  not  because  she  noticed 
anything  unusual  in  Emily,  but  because  she  was 
herself  preoccupied. 

Emily  was  really  suffering.  She  thought  Johnny 
Innes  was  disgusted  'with  her  for  her  cowardice 
about  admitting  their  engagements.  That  a  man 
truly  in  love  with  her  would  continue  to  love  her 
in  spite  of  faults  far  greater  than  this,  she  knew — 
as  well  as  a  girl  in  love  can  be  said  to  know  any- 
thing. But  she  was  not  sure  that  Johnny  loved 
her — only  that  she  wanted  him  to,  and  that  she 
was  in  a  passion  of  pain  lest  something  like  this 
intervene  to  separate  them  before  she  had  won 
his  love. 

And  Johnny  was  one  of  the  men  who  can  make 
women  sue.  Perhaps  all  men  can;  but  if  they 
can,  some  don't.  Johnny  did.  He  got  his  own 
238 


"Jack  the  Giant-Killer" 

way  in  the  world — largely,  with  men;  altogether, 
with  women.  He  knew  exactly  how  to  go  about  it. 

Emily  was  in  feverish  haste  to  get  downstairs 
where  she  might  encounter  him.  And  she  was 
praying  that  she  and  Lucy  might  be  spared  any 
calls  from  the  occupants  of  near-by  dressing-rooms. 

But  no!  Marie  Harmon  must  needs  come  in 
to  show  the  proofs  of  her  new  photographs  and 
have  them  each  discussed  in  minute  detail.  And 
Anna  Leighton  must  tell  Lucy  how  grateful  she 
was  for  sending  her  to  that  scalp  specialist — 
"She  said  it  was  something  awful,  the  condition 
my  hair  had  got  into  from  the  wrong  kind  of  treat- 
ment; that  naturally  I  ought  to  have  perfectly 
beautiful  hair,  and " 

Emily  couldn't  flaunt  her  "grouch"  to  the  whole 
company.  She  had  to  make  some  sort  of  a  pre- 
tense about  caring  whether  Marie's  pictures  did 
her  justice  and  whether  Anna's  hair  was  bad  or 
good.  But  as  soon  as  her  dress  was  hooked  she 
made  her  escape.  "I  must  take  something  down 
to  Miss  Everz,"  she  said,  excusing  herself. 

Miss  Everz  was  an  elderly  woman  of  the  com- 
pany. Her  dressing-room  was  down  nearer  stage- 
level.  Emily  had  never  been  known  to  do  more 
than  exchange  greetings  with  Miss  Everz. 

"What's  up?"  Marie  asked  Lucy  when  Emily 
was  gone. 

"Nothing,"  Lucy  answered.     "Emily  seems  a 

239 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

little  worried  about  something.  I  guess  we  all  are, 
some  of  the  time." 

"I  saw  her  get  out  of  a  taxi — up  the  street — 
to-night,"  Anna  remarked.  "I  can't  afford  cabs 
on  my  salary — and  I  get  more  than  she  does. 
But  if  I  could  afford  them  I  wouldn't  get  out  up 
the  street." 

The  other  girls  both  turned  on  her  sharply. 

"Anna!"  cried  Marie  Harmon.  "For  Heaven's 
sake,  don't  talk  like  a  chorus  girl." 

Lucy  looked  her  protest,  but  said  nothing. 

"Well,  pardon  me!  "  Anna  sneered,  and  took 
herself  off  in  a  rage  against  the  girl  who  was  the 
unwitting  cause  of  her  discomfiture. 

Emily  was  "on"  in  the  first  scene;  so  was 
Johnny.  It  was  not  unlikely  that  he  would  be 
ready  a  minute  or  two  before  the  act  was  called; 
if  he  were  repentant  or  anxious  he  would  almost 
certainly  be  where  he  could  snatch  a  word  with 
her  before  they  went  on.  Emily  felt  that  she 
could  not  bear  her  agony  of  suspense  "through 
a  whole  act."  She  devoutly  hoped  that  Johnny 
felt  the  same  way.  But  Johnny  didn't.  He  knew 
Emily,  and  he  knew  his  little  game. 

He  knew  Emily  was  looking  for  him.  He 
could  have  guessed  it,  but  he  didn't  need  to — 
he  could  see  her.  His  dressing-room  was  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  stage  and  one  flight  up.  He 
had  it  alone,  being  the  "juvenile  lead."  As  soon 

240 


"Jack  the  Giant-Killer" 

as  he  was  dressed  he  opened  the  door.  Emily,  if 
she  looked  up,  could  see  him  sitting  there  reading 
his  letters.  He,  if  he  looked  down,  could  see  her 
standing  on  the  stage,  back  of  the  "set,"  waiting 
to  be  seen. 

Johnny  had  hoped  she  wouldn't  be  there. 
They  always  came!  There  wasn't  a  girl  in  the 
world,  he  was  beginning  to  believe,  who  could 
make  the  game  of  love  interesting — except  to  a 
dull  man!  The  girls  were  willing  enough  to 
plague  some  fellows.  Davy  was  the  kind  of  man 
a  girl  teases  and  enjoys  teasing.  But  Johnny 
could  never  find  one  that  wasn't  "  dead  easy."  He 
was  getting  bored.  Emily  had  fought  interest- 
ingly shy  of  him  at  first.  Then,  when  he  had 
broken  that  shyness  down,  it  was  often  a  little 
difficult  to  persuade  her  to  dine  or  sup  with  him, 
because  of  her  reluctance  to  tell  her  mother.  To- 
night he  actually  had  hopes  of  something  to  "buck 
against."  But  no! 

He  waited  until  the  act  was  called,  then  ran 
hurriedly  down  at  the  last  moment.  Emily  was 
standing  in  her  entrance  waiting  to  go  on  a  mo- 
ment after  the  curtain  rose.  He  made  the  same 
entrance  almost  immediately  after  her. 

She  gave  him  an  imploring  look  which  he  pre- 
tended not  to  see.  He  nodded  a  polite  "good- 
evening"  to  the  three  ladies — Miss  Everz,  Lucy, 
and  Emily — who  were  standing  there  together. 

241 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

The  curtain  was  up;  nothing  but  nods  and  smiles 
and  the  most  suppressed  whispers  was  possible. 

When  Johnny  made  his  first  exit  he  was  "off" 
for  a  matter  of  five  minutes.  Emily's  exit  was 
earlier  and  she  did  not  go  on  again  except  for  the 
first  curtain  call.  But  as  her  dressing-room  was 
so  high  up,  she  usually  stood  on  the  stage  until  the 
act  was  over.  She  was  there  to-night  as  usual 
when  Johnny  came  off.  To  ignore  her  would  be 
too  pointed.  There  were  a  dozen  stage-hands — 
electric-light  men  and  scene-shifters — who  had 
seen  Johnny,  night  after  night,  talking  with  Emily 
through  that  wait.  He  was  too  thoroughly  a  gen- 
tleman to  give  them  reason  to  suppose  that  he  and 
Miss  Bristow  were  quarrelling;  he  wouldn't  allow 
a  stage-hand  to  infer  that  degree  of  intimacy 
where  a  quarrel  was  possible.  He  nodded  to 
Emily  when  he  came  off  and  beckoned  to  Lucy 
Truman. 

"I  must  tell  you  something,"  he  whispered  to 
them  both,  and  went  on  to  repeat  some  little  bit 
of  behind-the-scenes  news  which  might  be  sup- 
posed to  interest  them.  He  kept  Lucy  there  until 
his  cue  came. 

Emily  was  near  crying.  She  thought  she  un- 
derstood :  it  was  to  be  like  this  henceforth ! 

In  the  second  act  she  was  not  "on"  at  all; 
there  was  no  possible  excuse  for  her  being  on  the 
stage,  because  even  the  part  she  under-studied 

242 


"Jack  the  Giant-Killer" 

was  not  in  the  second  act.  Neither  was  Lucy  on; 
and  Emily  dreaded  the  "wait."  But  Lucy  had  a 
letter  to  write — this  was  an  opportunity  frequently 
embraced  for  correspondence.  Emily  wrote,  too. 
She  wrote  a  long  letter  and  a  short  one.  They 
were  both  to  John  Innes.  The  short  one  was  for 
personal  delivery  to  him  during  the  performance, 
if  she  got  a  chance.  The  long  one  was  to  be  sent 
to  him  by  messenger  immediately  after  the  per- 
formance if  she  found  it  impossible  to  have  a  talk 
with  him  before.  She  could  be  pretty  sure  he 
had  no  engagement  or  he  would  not  have  asked 
her  to  wait.  He  would  probably  not  go  home 
because  he  did  not  know  whether  "the  folks" 
would  be  there  or  not.  He  would  go  to  The 
Lambs,  she  felt  almost  sure. 

She  put  the  long  letter,  in  a  sealed  envelope,  in 
her  hand-bag.  The  short  note  she  stuck  in  her 
dress.  She  was  "on"  at  the  beginning  of  the 
third  act — which  was  the  last.  Johnny  did  not 
come  on  until  the  act  was  about  five  minutes  under 
way.  He  was  not  in  sight  before  the  curtain 
rose.  Emily  was  sure  now  that  it  was  to  be  "like 
this"  ever  after.  She  couldn't  bear  it,  she  knew. 
There  was  one  little  moment  on  which  she  pinned 
her  hope  of  getting  that  note  to  him:  it  was  in 
the  very  brief  time  between  his  entrance  upon  the 
scene  and  her  exit.  He  was  supposed  to  say 
something  to  her  on  the  side  while  the  principals 

243 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

were  talking.  There  were,  however,  other  people 
who  were  in  the  scene  but  not  actively  of  it.  They 
were  supposed  to  be  listening  to  what  was  being 
said  in  the  scene;  but  some  of  them  were  not  so 
intently  listening  that  Emily  could  be  sure  they 
would  not  see  her  slip  Johnny  a  note  or  hear 
what  she  might  whisper  to  him. 

As  the  moment  approached  she  became  ner- 
vous. She  was  afraid  to  try  the  note  for  fear  she 
might  drop  it.  The  cue  came;  Johnny  crossed 
to  her.  She  was  desperate.  Her  pantomime  re- 
quired that  she  wait  for  him  to  speak — or  to  act 
as  if  speaking.  She  waited.  When  he  spoke  it 
was  the  little  meaningless  line  used  at  rehearsal  to 
"cover"  the  pantomime.  He  had  not  used  it  in 
several  weeks.  It  was  one  of  his  pleasures  to 
think  up  a  different  line  to  say  to  her  at  each  per- 
formance— sometimes  a  charming  line,  sometimes, 
when  he  was  in  teasing  mood,  a  line  most  difficult 
for  her  to  reply  to  with  the  required  pantomime. 
Her  tears  all  but  started  when  he  repeated  the 
"stock"  line.  But  she  held  them  back.  Her 
demeanor  was  supposed  to  be  coyly  coquettish. 
She  had  to  suggest  that  she  had  said:  "Oh,  Mr. 
Beckwith!"  in  a  kind  of  diffident,  "dare-you-to" 
way.  Instead,  she  whispered  imploringly:  "I 
must  see  you!"  Then  she  laughed  and  was  gone. 

She  waited  on  the  stage  for  the  act  to  end. 
Johnny  was  on  until  almost  the  final  scene.  He 

244 


"Jack  the  Giant-Killer" 

came  off  with  the  ingenue  whom  he  did  not  like 
but  who  was  supposed  to  be  much  in  love  with 
him,  chatting  gayly,  if  in  whispers. 

"That  was  immense — the  way  you  brought  in 
that  bit  of  business  to-night,"  Emily  heard  him 
say.  They  were  discussing  the  scene  they  had 
just  played. 

"That  'cross'  always  bothered  me,"  the  ingenue 
answered,  looking  very  pleased.  "I've  felt  there 
was  something  wrong  about  it,  but  I  couldn't  tell 
what — it  made  me  feel  self-conscious  every  time 
I  did  it.  And  I  thought  it  bothered  you." 

"It  did,"  Johnny  assented.  "That  was  an  in- 
spiration— that  bit  of  business." 

She   beamed.     "I   am  so  glad.     I   asked   Mr. 
Power  if  I  might  try  it,  and  he  said  'Go  ahead.' ' 
(Mr.  Power  was  the  stage-manager.) 

Emily  stood  waiting  for  a  sign  from  Johnny 
that  he  had  heard  her  plea. 

He  nodded  at  her;  his  expression  said  "Yes." 
She  hurried  up  the  steep  stairs  to  make  her  change 
into  street  clothes.  Johnny  was  a  quick  dresser. 

She  was  in  obviously  better  spirits  as  she  dressed. 
Lucy  noted  the  change,  but  was  too  tactful  to  ap- 
pear to  notice  it. 

"Anna  Leighton  glared  at  me  just  now  as  if 
she'd  like  to  bite  me,"  Emily  declared,  rubbing 
vigorously  at  her  cream-smeared  face  with  a  rough 
towel.  "I  wonder  what  I've  done  to  her  ?" 

245 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"Nothing,  I  dare  say,"  Lucy  answered.  "She 
probably  felt  grouchy  at  Mr.  Power  or  somebody, 
and  you  were  the  first  person  who  came  in  her 
way — so  you  got  it.  Things  often  happen  that 
way.  I  try  to  remember  it,  when  I'm  inclined  to 
think  somebody  is  out  of  sorts  with  me.'* 

"Oh,  well!"  returned  Emily,  dabbing  powder 
on  her  face  and  neck  with  gay  abandon.  "Not 
that  it  matters  to  me  who  she  has  a  grouch  on!" 

She  hurried  into  her  clothes  and  away.  The 
stage  was  cleared  when  she  got  downstairs,  and 
dark.  She  could  see  across  it  to  Johnny's  dress- 
ing-room, where  the  light  was  still  burning.  She 
passed  briskly  through  the  little  group  of  stage- 
hands lingering  about  the  stage  door,  and  went 
along  Forty-first  Street  toward  Seventh  Avenue. 

Times  Square  was  a  jam  of  people  and  vehicles. 
Broadway  cars  and  Seventh  Avenue  cars  and 
Forty-second  Street  cross-town  cars  jerked  along 
a  few  feet  at  a  time  as  the  policemen  whistled 
signals  to  stop  or  to  go  ahead.  Motors  whizzed 
around  the  many  corners  at  perilous  speed.  The 
human  streams  flowed  in  six  directions.  Two- 
score  theatres  had  emptied  into  this  square  within 
ten  or  fifteen  minutes.  A  score  or  more  of  res- 
taurants were  receiving  hundreds  of  these  people; 
others  were  making  for  Subway  entrances,  for 
street  cars,  or  were  dashing  away  in  swift  cabs. 
Lights  blazed  everywhere.  Women  in  filmy 

246 


"Jack  the  Giant-Killer" 

gowns,  lifted  high  to  display  gauzy  silk  stockings 
and  high-heeled  slippers  with  glittering  buckles, 
picked  their  way  across  wind-swept  streets.  Shim- 
mering satin  capes,  fluttering  ostrich  plumes  and 
paradise  feathers,  flashing  pins  and  ornaments  in 
elaborately  coifed  hair,  breath  of  orchids  and 
violets  and  lilies  of  the  valley — all  these  are  of  the 
scene  in  Times  Square  between  ten-forty-five  and 
eleven  o'clock  any  night  when  the  theatres  are 
open.  The  thousands  of  soberly  attired  folk — 
women  in  tailored  suits  and  Sunday  hats;  men 
in  business  clothes — hastening  to  distant  homes 
that  there  may  be  a  sufficient  night's  rest  before 
to-morrow's  work,  play  little  part  in  the  comedy 
of  Times  Square  except  with  the  traffic  squad. 
It  doesn't  matter  where  they  go,  or  what  they  may 
have  thought  of  the  play.  Presumably  their  chief 
interest  in  coming  is  to  see  the  gay  birds  of  para- 
dise whom,  inevitably,  they  envy  desperately.  Or 
thus — in  effect — Times  Square  thinks  of  them. 
Only  now  and  then  a  man  moves  among  them 
with  the  touchstone  of  understanding — a  man  like 
Ansel  Rodman — and  knows  which  of  the  dull- 
plumaged  ones  are  envious  and  which  are  tempted 
and  which  are  glad  to  be  of  a  world  where  labor 
is  joy  and  where  pleasure  comes  without  having 
to  be  pursued. 

Emily  was  envious,  but  not  actually  tempted. 
Her  ideals  lay  within  the  zone  of  Irish  lace  and 

247 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

willow  plumes  and  supper  at  the  Knickerbocker. 
Her  mother's  wistfulness  had  never  been  of  that 
sort,  but  Emily's  was — distinctively.  She  was 
temporarily  safeguarded,  however,  by  her  fond- 
ness for  Johnny.  Even  now,  as  she  crossed  the 
square,  she  was  telling  herself  how  empty  the 
world  would  be  to  her  if  she  were  the  belle  of  one 
of  those  flashing,  shimmering  groups,  but  there 
were  no  Johnny  in  the  world.  She  would  rather 
— oh!  infinitely  rather — be  going  in  her  blue 
serge  suit  to  keep  an  appointment  with  Johnny 
than  be  going  swathed  in  Irish  lace  to  sup  with 
kings.  Kings,  indeed !  She  thought  of  Johnny's 
laughing  black  eyes;  of  his  beautiful  white  teeth 
that  showed  to  such  attractiveness  when  he  smiled; 
of  the  sweetness  of  expression  round  his  mouth; 
of  the  clean-cut,  high-bred  look  of  him  in  every 
detail;  and  of  the  charm  of  his  gayety  and  his 
tenderness.  Tears  blinded  poor  little  Emily  when 
she  tried  to  think  of  the  world — her  world — with- 
out Johnny.  Kings,  indeed!  Kings  could  only 
interest  a  girl  who  had  never  known  Johnny. 

They  had  a  place  of  rendezvous  —  she  and 
Johnny.  It  was  in  a  drug  store  on  Seventh  Ave- 
nue just  north  of  the  square.  She  had  been  there 
only  a  few  minutes  to-night  when  she  saw  him 
crossing  the  street.  She  went  out  to  meet  him. 

"Have  you  been  waiting  long?"  he  asked  po- 
litely. "I  tried  to  hurry." 

248 


"Jack  the  Giant-Killer" 

"Not  long,"  she  answered;  "but  it  seemed 
long.  Oh,  Johnny!  How  miserable  you  have 
made  me!" 

Johnny  had  been  sure  she  would  say  just  this. 
He  wished  he  couldn't  be  sure — but  he  was. 

"Nonsense!"  he  exclaimed  almost  crossly. 

Emily  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  appealingly. 
"You  don't  understand,"  she  entreated.  "I — if 
I  could  only  tell  you!  But  I  can't." 

This  sounded  interesting.  "Tell  me? — tell  me 
what  ?" 

"Why  I  have  to  be  so — so  secret  about  our 
engagements." 

Johnny  stood  still,  assaulted  by  direful  visions 
of  Emily's  Australian  husband,  or  the  like. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  explain,"  he  began. 
"You  never  told  me  there  was  any  reason  why  I 
shouldn't  take  you  out." 

"There  isn't!"  she  assured  him  promptly. 
Johnny  was  relieved  and  disappointed  —  both. 
"But " 

"But  what?" 

"That's  what  I  can't  tell.  It's  nothing  that  I 
ever  had  anything  to  do  with.  But  it — it  has  spoiled 
all  my  life  and  I  can  never  get  away  from  it." 

Johnny  was  beginning  to  grow  mystified.  He 
loved  to  be  "scared" — just  as  Goitie  Moiphy  did 
when  she  hid  around  corners  and  waited  for  him 
to  come  creeping  by  and  hiss  "Scat!" 

249 


Children  of  ToMorrow 

"Spoiled  your  life?"  he  echoed. 

She  nodded,  looking  away  from  him,  her  face 
full  of  wretchedness. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "this  is  absurd.  Your  life 
isn't  spoiled,  you  poor  baby.  You've  had  a  bad 
dream.  You  tell  me  about  it,  and  when  you 
start  to  tell  you'll  see  it  can't  be  true." 

He  started  east  in  Forty-fifth  Street.  It  was 
quiet  through  there,  and  if  Emily  decided  she 
wanted  something  to  eat  they  could  go  to  Burns's. 

"Now,  what  is  it?"  he  demanded  when  they 
had  got  out  of  earshot  of  Times  Square. 

Emily  began  to  cry.  "I  can't  tell  you,"  she 
sobbed.  "You'll  never  speak  to  me  again.  It's 
awful.  It's  been  hanging  over  me  like — like  that 
sword — you  know.  I  knew  it  would  happen. 
But  I  tried  to  be  happy  while  I  could." 

Johnny's  first  fear  returned. 

"Emily,"  he  asked,  "are  you  married?" 

Emily  gasped.  "No;  oh,  no!"  she  cried.  "Nor 
engaged — nor  anything  like  that.  I  never  was." 

Johnny's  relief  was  really  great. 

"Then  what  can  you  mean  ?  You  didn't  hap- 
pen to — to  kill  anybody — out  there  in  the  bush 
—did  you?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,"  she  murmured; 
"  nothing  like  that.  I  told  you  it  wasn't  anything 
that  I  had  done." 

"Nor  that  any  one  had — had  done  to  you  ?" 
250 


"Jack  the  Giant-Killer" 

"No — not  directly  to  me.     But  I  suffer  for  it." 

Johnny  thought  he  understood. 

"Is  it — is  it  because  you  don't  know — because 
you  haven't  any  father?"  he  persisted. 

She  clutched  his  arm  at  the  mention  of  her 
father.  "It  is  something  about  my  father  that  I 
can't  tell  you,"  she  replied. 

Again  Johnny  stopped.  There  was  no  one  in 
sight,  and  he  took  both  her  hands  in  his. 

"Emily!"  he  pleaded.  "Do  you  think  I  care 
anything  about  your  father  ?  Do  you  think  I  care 
whether  you  ever  had  a  father  or  not?" 

Emily  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  into  his. 
There  was  light  enough  in  the  street  so  that  he 
could  see  the  pain  in  them,  and  the  love,  and  the 
look  of  terror  that  she  could  not  overcome.  There 
was  something  there  that  his  tender  assurances 
could  not  put  to  flight. 

"Darling!"  he  cried.  "What  is  it?  Don't 
torture  me!" 

But  Emily  put  out  her  hands  with  a  gesture  as 
if  to  thrust  him  away  from  tempting  her,  and  with 
a  sob  she  turned  and  ran  away  from  him  as  fast  as 
she  could  go. 

He  caught  up  with  her  in  a  moment. 

"Don't!"  she  implored.  "Let  me  go.  You 
wouldn't  touch  me  if  you  knew." 

"Touch  you?"  he  echoed.  "I'd  touch  you  if 
you  were  a  leper!  I'd  hold  you  close  and  never 

25 i 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

let  you  go.  I'd  hold  you  if  your  hands  were  red 
with  blood — if  the  hounds  of  hell  were  after  you. 
I  love  you,  Emily — do  you  hear  me  ?  I  love  you! 
And  I'll  never  let  you  go!" 

Emily  stared  at  him  with  frightened  eyes. 

"Oh!"  she  gasped.  "You  don't  know  what 
you're  saying!" 

"I  do  know  what  I'm  saying.  You  may  tell 
me  your  dark  secret,  or  you  may  keep  it.  But  I'm 
going  to  marry  you." 

Ecstasy  and  terror  contended  within  poor  little 
Emily.  She  shook  like  a  leaf  in  the  wind. 

"You  won't,"  she  sobbed — "you  won't  when 
you  know  that  my  father  was  your  father's  assas- 
sin." 

"Assassin?"  he  echoed  dazedly. 

"Bardeen,"  she  whispered — the  name  had  not 
passed  her  lips  nor  assaulted  her  ears  since  she 
was  a  child.  "My  name  is  Emily  Constance  Bar- 
deen." 

"Good  God!"  Johnny  murmured  weakly,  and 
sat  down  on  some  steps  they  were  passing. 

Emily  regarded  him  tragically.  "I  knew  how 
it  would  be,"  she  said;  "I  told  you  how  it  would 
be." 

Johnny  passed  his  hand  across  his  eyes  as  if 
trying  to  brush  away  a  film.  He  grasped  the  rail- 
ing and  rose  weakly  to  his  feet. 

"Bardeen!"  he  groaned.     "Oh,  Emily!" 
252 


"Jack  the  Giant-Killer" 

"I  told  you,"  she  reiterated. 

The  exasperation  brought  him  to  his  senses  like 
a  good  irritant.  "Told  me  what  ?"  he  demanded. 
"  Do  you  suppose  I  hold  that  against  you  ?  Do 
you  think  that  is  the  kind  of  a  man  I  am  ?  Don't 
you  know  I  love  you  better — for  what  you  have 
suffered — instead  of  less  ?" 

Emily  was  exultant  but  not  comforted. 

"Mother,"  she  faltered  —  "mother  will  nev- 
er  " 

He  took  her  firmly  by  the  arm. 

"You  come  right  home  now,"  he  commanded, 
"  and  tell  your  mother  that  you  are  going  to  marry 
me.  Don't  ask  anything  about  it.  Just  tell  her 
it  is  settled  between  you  and  me,  and  nothing  can 
unsettle  it." 

Johnny  had  never  been  so  happy  in  his  life.  He 
had  walked  right  up  to  a  great  big  ogre  in  his 
path  and  had  said  "Pooh!"  and  it  had  vanished. 
As  Ballard  Creighton  said,  every  male  creature 
yearns  to  believe  himself  a  Jack-the-Giant-Killer. 


253 


CHAPTER  XV 

IN    THE    MORNING 

OLIVIA  was  in  bed  when  Emily  came  in,  but 
not  asleep.  Her  mind  had  been  pitilessly 
alert  since  dinner  time.  She  expected  the  an- 
nouncement Emily  was  to  make,  and  she  had 
been  preparing  herself  to  meet  it. 

In  all  the  world  Olivia  had  nothing  to  make  her 
selfish — nothing  but  Emily.  So  far  as  she  herself 
was  concerned,  it  could  make  little  or  no  differ- 
ence to  her  what  was  known  about  her.  She  had 
no  friends;  she  had  no  name;  she  had  no  position; 
she  had  nothing  to  lose.  But  even  if  she  saw 
suffering  ahead  for  herself  she  would  not  have 
flinched;  for  she  was  no  coward,  and  she  knew 
how  many  things  there  are  that  are  worse  than 
pain.  With  all  her  heart  she  desired  Emily's 
happiness;  no  other  consideration  obtruded  itself 
upon  her  at  any  time.  It  was  to  know  wherein 
that  happiness  might  be  expected  to  lie,  and  to 
decide  how  far  she  might  justifiably  go  in  pre- 
suming to  advise  or  to  interfere,  that  kept  her 
pondering. 

Emily  opened  the  door  gently.     The  light  was 

254 


In  the  Morning 

turned  low,  but  not  so  low  that  Emily  needed  to 
say  a  word;  her  face  told  her  happiness. 

Olivia  had  deep  reverence  for  that  happiness. 
It  was  something  to  compel  awe.  She  felt,  in  the 
presence  of  it,  as  a  sun-worshipper  does  before  an 
altar  warmed  with  sacred  fire.  She  sat  up  in  bed 
and  held  out  her  arms  to  her  daughter. 

Emily  ran  to  her,  dropped  on  her  knees,  and 
buried  her  head  in  her  mother's  breast. 

For  a  while  neither  spoke.  Then  Olivia  relaxed 
the  straining  intensity  of  the  clasp  with  which  she 
had  held  Emily  against  her  heart  and  drew  back 
her  head  so  she  could  look  down  into  the  girl's 
face. 

"Are  you — very  happy?"  she  whispered. 

"Oh,  mother!     If  you  only  knew." 

It  was  no  time  for  argument,  for  discussion. 
Olivia  said  not  a  single  word  of  questioning.  She 
said  few  words  of  any  sort.  And  Emily  was  in  an 
ecstasy  that  transcended  speech.  But  when  she 
had  undressed  she  laid  herself  down,  not  on  her 
own  cot,  but  beside  her  mother.  And  close-locked 
in  her  mother's  arms  she  lay  until,  drowned  in  her 
full  flood  of  happiness,  she  fell  asleep. 

"In  the  morning,"  Olivia  thought,  "we  can 
talk  about  it.  To-night — !  Oh,  God!  I  remem- 
ber nights  like  this — a  few — the  night  I  sat  in  the 
library  of  the  Mansion,  beneath  the  portrait  of 
the  War  Governor — a  night  or  two  in  the  little 

255 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

park  under  the  light  of  the  friendly  stars — I  have 
paid  dear  for  them!  But  if  I  could  have  foreseen 
all  I  should  hardly  have  had  strength  to  deny  my- 
self those  moments.  I  lived  thirty-five  years  hop- 
ing for  them — waiting.  If  I  live  other  thirty- 
five  years,  I  shall  still  be  on  fire  with  the  memory 
of  them.  That's  what  it  means  to  love:  Immor- 
tal Youth!" 

In  the  morning  Emily  opened  her  eyes  upon  a 
"world  made  new."  Olivia  remembered  such 
mornings,  too!  Remembered  coming  up  out  of  a 
sea  of  dreams  and  opening  her  eyes  on  a  workaday 
sphere,  but  a  sphere  glorified — because  he  was  in 
it.  She  remembered  listening  to  the  strokes  of 
the  Capitol  clock  and  thinking  that  he,  too,  heard 
them — that  they  counted  oflf  time  for  him  as  for 
her,  and  that  he,  too,  reckoned  each  hour  till  their 
next  meeting.  ...  It  was  impossible  to  hurt  Love 
in  the  morning! 

They  had  breakfast  in  their  room — a  little  lux- 
ury they  always  allowed  themselves  by  arrange- 
ment with  the  landlady. 

Olivia  took  the  tray  from  the  servant  and  set 
their  tiny  table,  from  which  the  books  were  tem- 
porarily deposed.  She  looked  wistfully  at  it  when 
it  was  spread. 

"Nobody  knows,"  she  said,  smiling  tenderly, 
"how  I  want  a  rose — a  wonderful,  perfect  rose — 
to  put  on  our  table — for  you,  dear." 

256 


In  the  Morning 

Emily  came  over  to  her  mother  and  kissed  her 
with  grateful  fervor. 

"I  didn't  know,"  she  murmured,  "that  you 
would — would  take  it  like — this." 

"You  didn't  know  that  I  would  love  your  hap- 
piness ?" 

"I  mean — I  was  afraid " 

Olivia's  face  was  telltale;  she  had  never  learned 
to  command  its  expressions. 

"I  told  Johnny,"  said  Emily  proudly,  "and  he 
said  it  didn't  make  a  bit  of  difference  to  him — 
that  he  only  loved  me  more  for  what  I  had  suf- 
fered." 

"You  told  him ?" 

"Who  I  am — yes.  He  said:  'Do  you  think  I 
care  anything  about  your  father  ?  Do  you  think 
I  care  whether  you  ever  had  a  father  or  not?' 
He  said  he'd  love  me  if  I  were  a  leper;  that  he'd 
love  me  if  my  hands  were  red  with  blood  and  if 
the  hounds  of  hell  were  after  me." 

Emily  was  exultant;  but  Olivia  was  thoughtful. 
They  sat  down  in  their  accustomed  places  on 
either  side  of  the  little  table.  Emily  looked  across 
at  her  mother,  waiting  for  her  to  speak. 

"Nobody  else  need  ever  know,"  Emily  vent- 
ured at  length,  when  she  was  tired  of  waiting 
for  her  mother  to  break  the  silence. 

"I  wonder — "  Olivia  murmured. 

"Why  should  they?"  the  girl  pursued  eagerly. 

257 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"Who  will  tell?  Not  Johnny,  certainly!  And 
not  I!  And  not  you!" 

"Wasn't  he  going  to — did  he  think  it  best  not 
to  tell  the  others — his  brother  and  Rose?" 

"  He  said  it  was  none  of  their  business — that  it 
was  nobody's  business  but  his  and  mine." 

"That  isn't  so!"  Olivia  cried.  "Don't  ever 
cheat  yourselves  that  way.  Your  love  is  other 
people's  business  as  well  as  yours.  You  can't 
make  it  otherwise.  I  know,  dear — I  know  /" 

"I  don't  see — "  Emily  began.  Her  shadowy 
recollections  of  her  father  and  mother  when  to- 
gether were  not  such  as  to  foster  the  belief  that 
her  mother  had  ever  known  much  about  love. 
Certainly  she  could  never  have  known  anything 
like  this  love  that  was  Emily's  and  Johnny's. 

Olivia  read  her  daughter's  mind — it  was  no 
extraordinary  feat,  for  all  young  minds  in  like 
situation  are  very  much  the  same. 

"You  think  I  do  not  understand,"  she  chided 
gently;  "but  I  do,  darling — I  do.  If  Johnny 
Innes  marries  you  without  telling  the  others,  you 
will  both  live  in  perpetual  fear  of  discovery " 

"No,  we  sha'n't!"  Emily  protested.  "But  sup- 
pose we  were  'discovered,'  as  you  call  it.  What's 
the  harm  ?  /  can't  help  what  father  did!" 

"You  can't  help  it — no!  But  you  know  how 
David  and  Rose  Innes — and  everybody  who  loves 
them — regard  the  murderer  of  their  idolized  father. 

258 


In  the  Morning 

Suppose  they  suddenly  find  out  that  the  girl 
Johnny  has  married  and  brought  to  them  as  a 
sister  is  the  child  of  that  man  by  whom  their 
father  was  laid  low!  They  will  resent  having 
been  deceived " 

"Well!"  Emily  replied  impatiently;  "suppose 
they  do!  They  are  not  essential  to  our  happiness. 
We  can  go  where  they  need  never  see  us  any 
more." 

"  But  their  happiness  ?  What  of  that  ?  How 
can  they  be  happy  if  Johnny  is  where  they  never 
see  him  any  more  ?" 

"That  is  not  our  lookout,"  Emily  declared.  "A 
man  shall  leave  father  and  mother  and  every  one 
and  cleave  to  his  wife.  Everybody  does  it!  When 
Rose,  and  Davy,  marry  we  will  not  interfere." 

Olivia's  mind  was  made  up.  Love  was  sacred 
in  her  eyes,  but  she  knew  it  was  not  meant  that 
any  should  worship  it.  It  was  a  fire  lent  to  warm 
life,  but  not  to  rule  it.  When  any  one  allows 
Love  to  become  ruthless  he  is  like  the  prostrate 
pagan  who  will  not  put  fire  out  though  it  destroy 
him  and  all  he  holds  most  dear. 

"Emily,"  she  began,  "I  must  tell  you  some- 
thing. You  are  to  tell  it  to  Johnny  Innes — if  you 
don't,  I  will.  And  he  is  to  tell  it  to  Davy  and 
Rose " 

She  stopped,  overcome  by  a  staggering  thought. 
How  could  it  be  told  to  them!  What  could  possi- 

259 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

bly  justify  the  telling  ?  She  had  been  so  full  of 
self-immolation,  she  had  not  realized  how  she 
was  purposing  to  immolate  them  also. 

Emily  stared  at  her. 

"It  can't  be  done!"  Olivia  went  on. 

"What  can't  be  done  ?" 

Olivia  nerved  herself  for  the  disclosure;  but 
her  courage  failed  her — not  on  her  own  account, 
but  on  Emily's. 

"I — I'll  tell  you  some  other  time,"  she  faltered. 

"I  want  to  know  now,"  Emily  insisted.  "Let's 
get  this  thing  settled.  I  don't  want  to  face  Johnny 
again  with  any  uncertainty  in  my  mind." 

Suspense  was  cruel,  Olivia  knew.  So  she  mus- 
tered all  her  strength  and  went  on. 

"Johnny  Innes — all  the  Inneses,"  she  began, 
"think — all  the  world  thinks — that  Lyman  Innes 
was  murdered  by  a  man  whose  cause  of  hatred 
was — the  strike.  It  is  not  true.  He  was  killed  by 
a  man  who  was  jealous — of  a  woman — of  his 
wife " 

"I  don't  understand." 

"Lyman  Innes  did  not  die  a  martyr  to  the 
strike.  He  died  because — he  was  my  friend." 

"Your  friend?" 

"My  lover — your  father  thought.  He  did  love 
me — but  not  in  the  base  way  your  father  believed. 
You  remember  the  last  night  we  were  at  home — 
how  I  was  locked  in  my  room  and  you  climbed 

260 


In  the  Morning 

over  the  transom — how  we  escaped  in  the  morn- 
ing, out  of  the  window — how  we  hid  at  your 
Uncle  Walter's — and  were  there  when  we — heard 
what  your  father  had  done.  Nobody  knew  the 
truth — or,  if  anybody  knew,  it  was  not  told.  He 
deserved  all  the  good  that  was  said  of  him — and 
more,  much  more.  He  did  not  deserve  that  any 
ill  should  be  said  of  him.  Providence  took  care 
of  his  good  name — it  is  almost  a  hallowed  name 
to-day.  You  couldn't  tell  his  children  the  truth 
— they  would  never  understand — the  blow  would 
kill  them — or  kill  the  best  in  them — their  faith." 

Emily  was  crying  bitterly.  She  left  the  table 
and  went  over  to  her  cot  and  threw  herself  upon 
it,  shaking  with  sobs. 

"Don't  touch  me!'*  she  moaned  when  her 
mother  sought  to  comfort  her.  "Don't  come  near 
me.  I  can't  bear  it!" 


261 


CHAPTER  XVI 
LOVE'S  FOOL 

BOTH  McCurdy  and  Creighton  found  in 
Catherine  Krakopfsky  a  well-spring  of  in- 
terest at  which  it  seemed  they  could  not  drink 
deep  enough. 

She  had  worked  in  sweat-shops  in  New  York 
for  five  years,  and  every  minute  of  the  time  her 
eyes  and  ears  were  open  to  all  that  was  going  on 
around  her.  She  knew  conditions  among  the 
workers;  knew  their  opinions,  their  aspirations. 
She  had  read  widely;  she  was  familiar  with  Rus- 
sian literature,  with  German,  and  with  English; 
she  knew  a  very  little  about  the  literature  of  the 
French — and  that  chiefly  the  Flemish  French  of  the 
Belgian  Socialists — and  more  about  the  Scandina- 
vian propaganda  of  individualism.  These  latter, 
however,  were  available  to  her  only  in  translations. 
The  German  and  the  English  she  read  as  freely 
as  she  read  Russian. 

Her  reading,  as  might  have  been  expected  of  a 
girl  already  well  imbued  before  she  left  Russia 
with  the  spirit  of  the  Revolutionists,  was  largely 

262 


Love's  Fool 

along  economic  lines.  But  it  was  the  way  her 
experience  vivified  her  reading  that  made  her  so 
intensely  interesting  to  men  like  Creighton  and 
McCurdy.  She  could  tell  each  of  them  a  world 
of  things  he  never  could  find  out  for  himself. 

"  For  no  matter  how  close  you  try  to  come,"  she 
said,  "you  are  not  of  us — even  you,  Mr.  Creighton. 
You  were  of  us  once,  but  you  put  yourself  away. 
When  you  found  that  the  education  you  gave 
yourself  was  not  only  joy,  but  capital — that  it 
enabled  you  to  make  forty,  sixty,  a  hundred  dol- 
lars a  week — then  you  became  as  'class-conscious* 
as  Mr.  McCurdy  here  who  was  never  poor.  You 
cannot  quite  feel  us  as  we  feel  ourselves." 

"But  you  are  better  educated,"  he  objected, 
"than  I  ever  dreamed  of  being." 

She  smiled.  "In  ideas,  maybe,  but  not  in 
skill.  And  even  in  ideas,  I  only  appreciate;  I  do 
not  create.  Who  pays  for  appreciation  ?  No  one 
in  this  country,  certainly.  Here  you  must  do 
something.  What  you  do  is  least  matter;  but 
that  you  do  is  imperative.  I  cannot  do — I  have 
no  skill  or  shrewdness.  I  can  only  feel!" 

There  was  that  about  her  more  potent  than 
any  skill — but  she  was  unaware  of  it.  She  had 
the  power  to  make  men  thrill  with  desire  to  do  as 
she  directed.  She  could  have  led  an  army.  Strat- 
egy to  plan  a  campaign  or  to  direct  a  battle,  she 
might  have  lacked.  But  she  could  have  carried 

263 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

a  standard  and  drawn  men  after  it  into  the  very 
jaws  of  hell.  She  was  unawakened  to  this  power 
in  herself.  The  awakening  was  to  come. 

She  was  twenty-three — slight  in  build,  but 
sinewy,  with  the  pallor  of  close  confinement  in- 
doors. Her  eyes  were  blue  and  of  an  extraor- 
dinary keenness.  Her  hair  was  brown  and  un- 
curly,  and  she  made  no  effort  to  arrange  it  in  any 
but  the  simplest  and  most  expeditious  way — in  a 
flat  coil  at  the  crown  of  her  head.  She  had  no 
features  that  were  prominent  for  any  reason, 
either  of  size  or  shape  or  beauty  or  ugliness.  Her 
charm,  her  distinction,  was  all  in  her  expression. 
When  she  talked  she  was  attractive.  When  she 
was  intensely  in  earnest  she  was  irresistible. 

Catherine  earned  about  nine  dollars  a  week 
when  she  was  working.  The  slack  seasons  in 
the  clothing  industry  come  twice  a  year  and  last 
sometimes  as  long  as  six  weeks  or  two  months. 
This  brought  the  average  of  Catherine's  earn- 
ings down  to  six  dollars  a  week  out  of  which  she 
obliged  herself  always  to  save  a  little  in  case  of 
calamity — strikes,  shut-downs,  accident,  illness, 
death.  There  were  so  many  things  that  might  hap- 
pen to  an  unprotected  girl,  or  to  her  sister.  Sonia 
gave  Catherine  more  concern  than  all  the  rest  of 
life  together. 

Sonia  was  young  —  only  eighteen.  She  was 
pretty,  in  a  soft,  sensuous  way  that  appealed  in- 

264 


Love's  Fool 

stantly  to  the  masculine  eye.  She  was  pleasure- 
loving.  She  was  mad  about  clothes.  Sonia 
wouldn't  work  at  tailoring  among  a  lot  of  frowsy, 
half-dressed  men  and  shabby,  ill-dressed  girls. 
She  was  a  "saleslady,"  and  her  ultimate  ambition 
was  the  chorus.  She  was  the  cause  of  Catherine's 
liberal  education  in  the  dangers  that  beset  the 
working  girl. 

Both  Creighton  and  McCurdy  were  intensely 
interested  in  what  Catherine  knew  of  this  latter 
subject.  It  lay  close  to  the  big  purposes  of  both 
of  them.  They  had  studied  it  as  best  they  could 
from  the  outside.  Catherine  knew  it  from  the 
inside. 

She  nodded  appreciatively  when  Creighton's 
hope  was  unfolded  to  her.  She  was  less  inclined 
to  regard  McCurdy's  with  favor. 

"You  Russians  are  too  terribly  uncompromis- 
ing," McCurdy  charged.  "It  is  one  reason,  per- 
haps, why  you  get  nowhere  with  your  Revolution.'* 

Catherine  smiled  grimly.  "There  is  no  possi- 
ble compromise  with  some  predatory  things,"  she 
retorted.  "As  well  talk  of  compromise  with  a 
tiger  of  Bengal." 

"There  is  no  man,"  contended  Lucius,  "who 
is  wholly  evil.  There  is  none  that  cannot  be  made 
to  do  good." 

She  shook  her  head.  "There  is  no  man  who  is 
wholly  evil — no.  In  prisons  there  are  murderers 

265 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

who  love  a  little  canary-bird,  and  wreckers  of 
other  people's  honor  who  weep  when  they  read  a 
poem  about  a  child.  But  we  dare  not  compro- 
mise with  them  and  give  them  liberty,  because 
when  they  have  liberty  the  good  in  them  is  not 
strong  enough  to  restrain  the  bad.  Many  a  mur- 
derer did  not  know  he  could  cherish  a  canary 
until  he  was  locked  up  for  taking  life — human 
life,  with  all  its  loves,  its  destinies,  unfulfilled.  I 
say  to  you  that  your  Powers  that  Prey  ought  not 
to  be  compromised  with.  A  wolf  got  loose  in  the 
park — a  well-fed  wolf,  with  his  belly  full — and 
there  was  panic  till  he  was  caught.  Yet  you  say 
wolves  can  be  made  to  serve  the  lambs — by  com- 
promise! Oh,  dreamer!" 

Lucius  was  nettled — but  not  repulsed. 

"I'll  convert  you  yet,"  he  declared.  "You  also 
dream.  But  I  need  your  dreams,"  he  went  on. 
"If  you  will  help  me — if  you  will  give  me  a  chance 
— I  think  I  can  prove  to  you  that  there  is  a  place 
for  me.  Perhaps  only  as  a  middleman;  but  that's 
something.  You  who  will  not  compromise  need 
not  hope  for  power.  If  I  attain  power  it  will  be 
something,  surely,  that  the  dreamers  have  my  ear. 
I  talked  the  other  day  with  a  man  of  brain,  of  wide 
influence,  who  says  that  ideality  of  any  sort  can 
never  again  enter  into  government — that  com- 
merce rules  the  world,  and  the  principles  of  com- 
merce must  underlie  all  government.  Government 

266 


Love's  Fool 

is  a  form  of  business,  he  says:  the  conservation 
of  many  businesses.  I  don't  believe  that.  I  be- 
lieve that  when  ideality  goes  out  of  government 
the  life  goes  out  of  it;  that  when  it  grapples  only 
with  things  as  they  are  and  ceases  to  struggle 
after  things  as  they  should  be,  it  will  be  a  soulless, 
perfunctory  institution,  ready  for  overthrow.  I 
believe  in  government  with  one  ear  to  the  ground, 
to  determine  what  is  practicable.  But  with  all 
my  soul  I  believe  that  the  other  ear  should  be 
strained  to  listen  to  the  choir  invisible,  to  learn 
what  is  desirable." 

Catherine  was  not  convinced,  but  she  was  im- 
pressed. 

"I  am  willing  to  learn,"  she  told  him. 

She  agreed  to  go  with  them  on  Saturday  even- 
ing on  a  round  of  places  where  the  girls  of  Sonia's 
sort,  released  from  toil  and  seeking  to  satisfy  them- 
selves as  to  the  beauty  and  pleasantness  of  life, 
its  romance  and  its  high  adventure,  went  for  rec- 
reation. 

"They  are  young,"  she  said,  "and  they  must 
laugh.  They  are  women,  and  they  must  try  to 
charm.  They  are  souls,  and  they  must  spread 
their  wings  in  venture.  They  work  in  a  too-real 
world.  They  are  impelled  when  they  play  into 
an  unreal  world  to  feed  their  fancy,  to  keep 
romance  alive  in  them,  so  that  when  they  mate 
there  may  be  ecstasy  in  it.  It  is  nature  struggling 

267 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

in  them  to  perpetuate  itself;  in  a  passionate  desire 
to  approve  life,  to  be  glad,  to  look  forward  hope- 
fully. And  they  need  it  so!" 

Creighton  was  enchanted  with  her  understand- 
ing. He  had  read  far  more  widely  along  some  lines 
than  she  had,  especially  with  regard  to  the  history 
of  Play  and  its  psychology.  But  she  was  able, 
out  of  her  observation  and  experience,  to  illumine 
what  he  had  read  and  to  suggest  its  adaptability 
to  complex  New-World  conditions. 

Much  that  was  potent  in  the  Middle  Ages  to 
entertain  and  instruct  a  people  unified  in  religious 
beliefs,  racial  traditions,  and  close  communal  ex- 
perience, would  be  valueless  in  the  modern  city 
of  a  hundred  tongues,  a  hundred  creeds,  a  hun- 
dred racial  insularities  and  prejudices. 

Not  much  is  elemental,  universal.  Music,  dan- 
cing— these  are  the  appeal  of  rhythm,  an  appeal 
nearly  every  human  creature  feels.  There  are 
some  occasions  for  humor  that  are  nearly  uni- 
versal. There  are  some  aspirations  almost  every- 
body shares. 

Creighton  was  groping  among  these  realizations, 
seeking  the  foundation  for  his  scheme.  The 
"smoker"  conference  in  McCurdy's  sitting-room 
had  been  vastly  interesting,  but  not  immensely 
productive  of  suggestions.  It  was  agreed  that 
the  hunger  for  ideas  and  ideals  was  there.  But 
it  was  by  no  means  determined  how  any  one 

268 


Love's  Fool 

was  to  get  past  surface  prejudices  and  reach  it, 
or  what  one  might  reasonably  hope  to  reach  it 
with. 

"I  am  coming,"  Creighton  told  Catherine,  "to 
believe  that  our  saddest  lack  is  a  lack  of  heroes. 
I  know  what  Browning  prayed :  *  Make  no  more 
giants,  God;  but  elevate  the  race.*  But  if  I 
prayed,  I  should  pray  otherwise.  Rinaldo  is  all 
right  for  the  Italians,  The  Cid  is  splendid  for  the 
Spaniards.  But  they  don't  seem  to  come  near 
enough  to  life  as  it  is  to-day.  Rinaldo  doesn't  seem 
to  suggest  to  our  Little  Italy  what  qualities  of  a 
crusading  hero  are  needed  in  New  York  to-day. 
The  Cid  who  drove  Moors  from  Spain  doesn't 
seem  to  suggest  how  marauding  powers  may  be 
driven  from  Manhattan  Island.  We  need  heroes 
in  civic  life.  Even  military  heroes  are  only  half- 
sufficient,  because  the  average  man's  duty  to  his 
country  is  far  less  likely  now  to  be  in  bearing 
arms  than  in  forbearing  to  be  bribed  or  bought  or 
browbeaten.  We  need  more  men  whose  idealism 
and  whose  righteousness  have  been  found  potent 
against  the  temptations  that  assail  men  to-day. 
And  when  I  see  persons  using  their  little  power 
to  minimize  the  big,  to  belittle  the  great,  to  search 
out  the  flaws  where  other  men  of  better  faith  have 
found  only  that  which  commands  reverence — 
then  I  can  only  wonder  at  our  moral  code 
which  avenges  the  destruction  of  life,  although  it 

269 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

holds  death  but  the  entrance  upon  Immortality; 
while  the  destruction  of  belief  it  avenges  not  at 
all." 

Creighton  had  been  in  conference  that  day  with 
Bruce  Norbury  and  Ansel  Rodman. 

They  had  taken  a  Third  Avenue  surface  car 
at  Catherine's  corner  and  ridden  to  Grand  Street. 
Here,  instead  of  getting  on  the  cross-town  car,  they 
started  to  walk. 

Third  Avenue  is  presumed  by  those  who  seldom 
see  it  to  be  somewhere  near  the  limits  of  New 
York's  East  Side.  Second  Avenue  is  occasionally 
heard  of  "uptown";  First  Avenue,  only  semi- 
occasionally.  What,  if  anything,  may  lie  beyond 
First  Avenue,  upper  Fifth  Avenue  has  never  troub- 
led itself  to  wonder.  A  city  lies  east  of  First 
Avenue! — a  big  city  in  extent  and  in  population. 
It  has  very  little  conscious  relation  to  other  cities 
lying  north  of  Astor  Place  and  west  of  the  Bowery 
— even  less  conscious  relationship  than  those  other 
cities-within-a-city  have  to  it. 

Grand  Street  was  not  unfamiliar  to  Catherine 
or  to  either  of  the  two  men;  but  it  had  its  unfail- 
ing fascination  for  each  of  them. 

The  push-cart  gentry  were  in  full  swing  to- 
night. It  seemed  as  if  the  curb  could  not  have 
accommodated  another  merchant,  not  only  along 
both  sides  of  Grand  Street,  much  farther  than  the 
eye  could  reach,  but  rounding  all  of  the  many 

270 


Love's  Fool 

corners  and  stretching  down  for  forty  or  fifty  feet 
into  every  side  street. 

Great  numbers  of  the  carts  this  November 
night  displayed  furs — near-mink  and  almost-lynx 
and  even  "erminette" — made  up  into  neck-pieces 
and  muffs  that  kept  pace  with,  if  not  Fifth  Avenue 
styles,  at  least  with  those  of  Sixth  Avenue. 

Of  other  articles  the  push-carts  offered  many 
were  of  an  intimate  nature:  corsets,  garters,  under- 
wear, stockings.  Some  catered  to  the  vanities  and 
sold  millinery,  veilings,  cheap  jewelry;  numbers 
of  them  dealt  briskly  in  false  hair — jute  and  the 
tresses  of  executed  Chinese.  Others  were  pur- 
veyors to  the  housewife:  foodstuffs  and  kitchen- 
ware  and  calico  wrappers  and  gingham  aprons. 
Her  lord  was  tempted  with  gilt  collar  buttons  and 
leatherette  purses  and  ready-made  neckties  and 
with  shoestrings — as  well  as  with  underwear  and 
jean  trousers  arid  yarn  socks  and  cowhide  shoes. 

In  addition  to  the  curbstone  merchants,  Grand 
Street  presented  two  lines  of  shops  as  long  and  as 
little  varied  in  general  character  as  the  shopping 
length  of  Broadway. 

One  might  marvel  where  purchasers  could  come 
from  sufficient  to  support  the  trade  of  this  one 
street  did  not  one  thread  one's  way  amongst  them 
with  such  difficulty.  They  are  there  to  answer 
the  question  before  it  can  be  raised. 

They  were  of  both  sexes,  with  the  women 
271 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

slightly  predominating,  and  of  all  ages.  But  one 
noticed  no  class  among  them  so  much  as  one  no- 
ticed the  girls.  The  girls  were  there  to  be  noticed, 
and  they  spared  no  effort  to  accomplish  their  de- 
sire. It  is  the  marketplace  to  which  maidens 
from  time  immemorial  have  brought  their  charms 
for  display  as  Nature  directs  them  to. 

The  majority  of  the  girls  were  hatless,  and  every 
head  was  built  out  of  all  semblance  to  a  human 
head  with  masses  of  jute  and  bunches  of  puffs. 
Rhinestones  glittered  in  every  coiffure.  And  that 
girl  was  not  discoverable  who  was  not  chewing 
gum.  "Suits"  were  less  universal  than  ordina- 
rily, owing  to  the  season's  preference  for  military 
capes;  at  least  half  of  the  younger  women  in  evi- 
dence wore  these  capes  of  dark-blue  shoddy  cloth 
trimmed  with  red  facings  and  brass  buttons. 
The  others  were  obliged  to  make  what  showing 
they  could  with  a  suit  and  the  ubiquitous  white 
waist  much  inset  with  medallions  and  cheap  lace. 
There  was  as  little  attempt  at  individuality  of 
dressing  as  there  is  on  Broadway,  each  woman 
following  the  others  as  closely  as  she  can  in  a  panic 
of  fearfulness  lest  she  be  discovered  a  step  behind 
"the  latest." 

They  were  of  a  dozen  nationalities,  those  girls 
— Russian  and  Polish  and  German  Jews,  Italians, 
Bohemians,  Lithuanians,  a  sprinkling  of  the  Irish 
always  to  be  found  where  Jews  abound,  Hunga- 

272 


Love's  Fool 

rians,  Czechs,  and  Slovaks  (not  to  enumerate  the 
others).  A  majority  of  them  were  foreign-born. 
Probably  not  one  of  them  had  a  parent  born  in 
this  country.  All  of  them  were  wage-earners. 
Many  of  them  lived  at  home  with  their  people. 
A  minority,  but  still  a  great  number,  were  what 
our  government  in  its  commerce  and  labor  re- 
ports calls  "the  girl  adrift" — meaning  the  work- 
ing girls  in  cities  who  live  among  strangers. 

Too  frequently  the  strangers  the  girls  live  among 
are  their  own  kith  and  kin — their  un-Americanized 
parents  clinging  to  the  social  customs  of  the  home- 
land and  daily  receding  further  and  further  in  es- 
trangement behind  their  eagerly  advancing  young 
sons  and  daughters. 

Catherine  knew  all  this — not  superficially,  as  an 
observer  knows,  but  intensively  and  from  within. 

"  Because  I  want  you  to  feel  as  I  feel  these  girls' 
needs,"  she  said  to  the  two  men,  "I  open  my 
heart  to  you  about  my  little  Sonia.  I  am  helpless 
to  protect  her — not  so  helpless  as  the  parents  of 
these  girls  we  see,  because  I  know  more  of  con- 
ditions here  and  can  warn  Sonia,  but  helpless 
enough  to  drive  me  nearly  mad.  I  would  love  to 
go  with  her  wherever  she  goes,  to  share  in  her 
pastimes  as  is  the  good  old-country  way.  But 
she  resents  it.  That  is  not  the  American  way. 
Her  friends  do  not  want  me.  I  am  not  clever  as 
I  should  be,  or  not  so  big  as  I  should  be,  and  they 

273 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

realize  that  I  go  along,  not  because  I  am  attracted 
by  what  they  do,  but  because  I  want  to  be  with 
Sonia — to  *  watch/  they  say;  and  they  set  her 
against  my  doing  it.  ...  So  I  can  do  little.  I 
must  not  make  her  chafe  until  she  leaves  me  and 
I  cannot  find  her  any  more.  I  must  take  her  word 
for  where  she  goes  and  what  she  does.  I  cannot 
know  her  acquaintances,  because  there  is  no 
place  she  can  ask  them  to  where  I  can  meet  them. 
She  does  not  like  to  read,  to  study,  to  observe. 
There  is  nothing  for  her  in  our  little  room — noth- 
ing in  books — nothing  in  going  to  a  class  where 
she  may  learn  something,  even  to  make  a  hat. 
She  is  young;  she  is  pretty;  she  is  mad  for  pleas- 
ure. Nature  made  her  for  one  thing — even  more 
specifically  than  some  other  women  are  made — to 
mate.  With  all  her  eager  young  heart  she  is  pining 
for  her  other  half,  without  which  she  does  not 
know  how  to  conceive  life  to  be  worth  while.  I 
am  beyond  her  ken  because  I  find  myself  interests 
of  other  sorts.  She  is  right,  I  dare  say,  and  I  am 
wrong.  .  .  .  This  street  is  full  of  Sonias — not  so 
pretty  as  my  child  and  not  so  sweet,  but  with  like 
passions  and  like  circumstance.  They  were  de- 
signed in  the  plan  of  the  world  to  be  appealing — 
in  their  tender  youth;  were  designed  to  look 
out  on  the  world  with  eyes  easily  dazzled  by 
romance.  In  a  way  it's  cruel!  Nature  tricks 
them — to  serve  her.  It  is  well,  I  suppose,  that 

274 


Love's  Fool 

they  should  submit.  If  only  they  could  discrimi- 
nate a  little  !" 

They  had  turned  north  from  Grand  Street  and 
were  going  to  a  dance  hall  Catherine  knew.  Part 
of  her  confidence  about  Sonia  came  in  snatches 
in  the  quieter  street;  part  of  it  she  did  not  have 
opportunity  to  say  until  they  sat  in  the  gallery 
looking  down  on  the  dancers. 

It  was  an  orderly  dance.  Many  young  married 
couples  were  there  with  their  small  children. 
Youngsters  of  two  and  upward  mingled  with  the 
dancers  on  the  floor,  sliding  or  dancing  as  their 
accomplishments  allowed.  Babies  were  plentiful. 
Fathers  would  hold  their  infants  while  the  mothers 
danced.  Then  mothers  would  relieve  the  fathers 
and  take  their  own  turn  with  the  babies.  Sweet- 
hearting  among  the  younger  couples  was  vigorous 
and  unabashed.  In  the  gallery  where  Catherine 
and  the  two  men  sat  there  was  constant  coming 
and  going  of  couples  who  left  the  dance  floor  for 
a  season  of  "spooning."  The  gallery  was  dotted 
with  them,  each  fondly  embracing  couple  in  full 
sight  of  all  the  others,  but  none  of  them  the  least 
self-conscious  or  embarrassed.  Nature  teaches  all 
her  creatures  to  adapt  themselves  to  their  environ- 
ment. And  where  conditions  are  such  that  pri- 
vate courting  is  impossible,  she  easily  overcomes 
any  scruples  there  may  be  against  pursuing  court- 
ship wherever  it  may  be  done. 

275 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"There  are  people,"  Catherine  went  on,  nod- 
ding her  head  in  the  direction  of  these  couples, 
"who  come  down  here  and  laugh  at  this.  Insen- 
sate fools!  If  they  had  any  more  vision  than  a 
bat  they  would  see  what  it  all  means;  and  the 
weak  ones  would  weep,  but  the  strong  ones  would 
do  something!" 

The  dance  was  orderly;  but  disorder  lurked 
upon  its  heels.  There  was  a  saloon  below  the 
dance  hall  and  it  was  apparently  against  the  code 
of  none  of  the  girls  to  go  down  between  dances 
for  beer.  Creighton  went  below  and  watched 
through  several  intermissions. 

"  I  scarcely  saw  a  girl  touch  anything  but  beer," 
he  reported.  "And  of  course,  bred  as  they  were, 
that's  no  more  than  ice-cream  soda  is  to  an 
American  girl.  But  it's  the  saloon  influence. 
If  there  could  be  a  *  straight*  saloon!  run  for  the 
legitimate  profit  in  legitimate  drinks.  But  I  never 
saw  one.  A  saloon-keeper  who  isn't  a  pander  and 
a  prey  for  blackmail  is  as  rare  as  a  white  black- 
bird." 

Catherine  nodded.  "That's  it!"  she  said.  "It's 
the  traps  that  are  laid  for  the  girls  that  make  your 
blood  boil." 

"It's  too  bad,"  McCurdy  mused,  "that  eco- 
nomic conditions  ever  had  to  evolve  to  the  point 
where  women  were  literally  thrust  out  of  the 
home." 

276 


Love's  Fool 

"Ah!"  cried  Catherine,  "haven't  you  progressed 
beyond  that  ?  The  changes  which  have  thrust 
women  forth  have  been  bad  for  some  but  they 
have  given  life — life! — to  many." 

"What  makes  the  difference?"  he  persisted. 

"Partly  what  is  in  the  girl  when  she  is  forced 
out  and  partly  what  she  finds  there.  Her  educa- 
tion helps — that  is,  her  ability  and  her  resources. 
And  conditions  help.  Inability  to  earn  enough 
for  comfort  makes  some  girls  easy  prey.  And 
inability  to  find  entertainment  puts  some  others 
in  the  spoilers'  way.  The  only  things  there  are 
for  girls  to  do,  that  they  care  to  do,  are  like  this: 
they  are  full  of  traps  that  only  the  wariest  girls 
know  how  to  avoid." 

"When  my  dream  unfolds  to  include  the  girls," 
Creighton  mused,  "what  I  offer  them  must  not 
be  too  passive.  Their  youth  demands  something 
they  can  do — like  dancing  and  the  'rides'  at 
Coney  Island.  Would  that  there  were  some  ex- 
tension of  the  kindergarten  plan  to  fit  maiden- 
hood!" 

"Yes,"  Catherine  answered;  "yes!  that  is  what 
makes  me  think  sometimes  that  I  would  be  glad 
if  Sonia  could  get  into  a  chorus." 

McCurdy  gasped.  "You  don't  know  what 
you're  saying!"  he  protested. 

Creighton  came  quickly  to  Catherine's  defense. 
"I  think  she  does,"  he  contended.  "Sonia's 

277 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

temptations  there  could  not  be  stronger  or  more 
frequent  than  they  are  in  a  shop.  And  it  is  some- 
thing to  be  a  part  of  the  production  of  gayety. 
The  chorus  isn't  as  gay  a  place  as  it  looks  to  be; 
but  it  is  exciting.  Sonia  could  have  some  of  her 
love  of  excitement  gratified  there,  and  might  not 
have  to  go  such  lengths  to  seek  what  her  nature 
craves.  Dancing  maidens!  They  have  always 
been.  They  ought  always  to  be.  I'm  glad  the 
revival  of  dancing  is  on  in  such  earnest.  Think 
of  the  day,"  he  cried,  "when  girls  like  these  shall 
dance  for  love  of  the  grace  and  beauty  of  it,  as 
they  now  dance  for  mere  love  of  the  rhythm! 
When  they  shall  consciously  express  in  it  poetry 
and  all  that  inspires!" 

He  was  rapt  in  his  vision  and  made  transcend- 
ently  happy  by  it. 

When  they  rose  to  go,  he  said  that  if  they  would 
excuse  him  he  would  linger.  They  understood, 
and  went  on  without  him. 

As  they  approached  Catherine's  door,  still  deep 
in  their  discussions  that,  instead  of  coming  to  an 
end,  were  always  opening  up  long,  new  vistas, 
McCurdy  said: 

"I  must  talk  with  you  about  that.  When  shall 
I  see  you  again  ?" 

Catherine  smiled.  "Any  evening,"  she  an- 
swered wistfully,  "when  you  want  to  walk  the 
streets  or  to  sit  in  some  Bowery  resort  like  the 

278 


Love's  Fool 

Atlantic  Garden.  I  have  no  place  that  I  can  ask 
you  to." 

"And  I,"  he  muttered,  "have  the  place  but  I 
can't  ask  you  there." 

"No,"  she  agreed;  "that's  not  to  be  thought 
of — for  your  sake,  not  mine." 

"Won't  you  let  me  come  sometimes  and  take 
you  out  to  dine  ?  There's  always  that  possibility!" 

"Not  to  me,"  she  answered,  "unless  it  were  a 
very  shabby  kind  of  place  where  my  working 
clothes  wouldn't  shame  you." 

"There  are  scores  of  nice  places,"  he  assured 
her,  "where  clothes  do  not  matter." 

"All  I  ask  of  them,"  she  declared,  "is  that  the 
opportunity  for  talking  be  good.  You  cannot 
know  how  starved  I  am  for  talk!" 

"We'll  take  care  of  that  starvation,"  he  prom- 
ised; and  there  was  a  note  of  tenderness  in  his 
voice  that  Catherine's  keen  ear  did  not  miss. 
She  was  starved  for  tenderness,  too;  and  the  tears 
rushed  to  her  eyes  as  she  glimpsed  happiness 
ahead. 

She  laid  her  hand,  trembling  with  excitement,  on 
his  arm,  "And  when  you  can,"  she  pleaded, 
"you  will  think  of  the  tens  of  thousands  of  other 
girls  who  have  no  place  to  ask  a  friend  to — no 
place  to  go  ?  I'm  not  in  danger  as  they  are.  I 
have  my  world  of  books — I  can  go  in  and  shut 
the  door  and  be  a  queen.  That  is  my  good  for- 

279 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

tune.  Other  girls  don't  have  it.  You'll  remem- 
ber the  girls  when  you  come  into  your  kingdom — 
won't  you  ?" 

"I  will,"  he  promised,  "and  they  shall  thank 
you." 

Catherine's  pulses  were  throbbing  madly  as  she 
climbed  the  stairs  to  her  room.  She  had  never 
felt  like  this  before. 

Mollie,  tear-stained  and  dishevelled,  was  sleep- 
ing on  her  bed. 

"She  beat  me,"  Mollie  sobbed  when  Catherine 
roused  her,  "and  I  run  away.  And  after  I  thought 
she  wouldn't  be  lookin'  fer  me  no  more  I  came 
back  an'  came  in  here.  I  didn't  know  where  to 
go  or  I  wouldn't  have  never  come  back!"  she 
cried. 

Catherine  snatched  the  child  to  her  breast  with 
a  passionate  protectiveness. 

"No,  Mollie!"  she  entreated.  "You  mustn't 
think  of  things  like  that.  I  know  it's  bad  here — 
but  it  would  be  worse  if  you  ran  away.  I'll  try  to 
find  some  place  that  you  can  go — and  be  safe. 
I'll  ask — I  know  some  one  I  can  ask;  some  one 
who's  strong  and  good  and  who  wants  to  help, 
and  knows  how." 

"Your  fella?"  Mollie  inquired  interestedly. 

Catherine  flushed.     "I  haven't  any  'fellow,*' 
she   said.     "What   made  you   think  of  such   a 
thing?" 

280 


Love's  Fool 

"The  way  you  looked  when  you  was  talkin' 
about  him,"  observed  Mollie  shrewdly. 

Catherine  denied  indignantly  to  herself  that  she 
had  any  such  thoughts  as  Mollie  gave  her  credit 
for.  "I'm  not  a  fool!"  she  told  herself. 

But  she  was — Love's  fool. 


281 


CHAPTER  XVII 

OLD    AND    NEW    CHIVALRY 

FTER  Lucius  and  Catherine  had  gone, 
Creighton  sat  watching  the  dancers  for  a 
while,  then  went  down  again  to  the  bar,  where  he 
ordered  a  succession  of  soft  drinks — lemon  and 
seltzer,  varied  with  ginger  ale  and  Angostura  bit- 
ters. Like  most  men  who  have  once  been  slaves 
to  drink,  Creighton  could  never  dally  with  it  after 
he  had  renounced  his  slavery. 

The  bartender  who  served  him  was  interested. 
Himself  an  abstemious  person,  he  knew  the  signs 
of  the  reclaimed  drunkard. 

"  I  don't  touch  it  either,"  he  confided  to  Creigh- 
ton. 

Creighton  was  watching  a  group  at  a  near-by 
table  where  the  girls  were  growing  maudlin  in 
their  merriment. 

"I  wish  they  wouldn't  touch  it!"  he  murmured, 
his  gaze  on  the  girls. 

The  bartender  approved.  "Not  for  my  girl,  I 
can  tell  you!  And  say!  it's  something  to  be  in 
the  business;  then  anything  you  tell  your  girl 
against  it  has  got  to  go.  She  can't  come  back  at 

282 


Old  and  New  Chivalry 

you  with  talk  about  you  not  knowin*.  I  got  one 
that's  sixteen.  And  she's  wise  to  a  few  things 
that  I  know,  you  bet." 

Creighton  nodded.  "That's  the  stuff!"  he  said. 
"I  wonder  where  these  girls'  fathers  think  their 
daughters  are." 

"Some  of  'em  don't  think,"  replied  the  bar- 
tender. "An'  some  of  'em  can't  think — they  don't 
know  how.  That's  the  trouble  with  these  girls 
— they  ain't  never  had  nothin'  that  you  could  call 
bringin'  up." 

The  moral  reflections  continued  as  the  exigencies 
of  business  allowed.  Then — 

"Your  face  is  mighty  familiar  to  me,"  the  bar- 
tender remarked. 

Creighton  was  accustomed  to  the  type  of  waiter 
and  barber  and  other  much-wandering  servitor 
whose  chief  point  of  pride  it  is  to  recall  faces  and 
identify  them  with  places,  thus  entering  upon  a 
long  account  of  movements  from  pillar  to  post. 

"Yes?"  he  answered  abstractedly. 

"Let  me  think!"  The  bartender  was  search- 
ing his  memory,  hoping  to  give  an  exhibition  of 
his  powers.  "I — I  place  you  vaguely,"  he  went 
on,  "in  connection  with  trouble — with — with  labor 
troubles — with  a  strike — with  the  big  strike  of 
'94.  I  was  'tending  bar  in  a  place  that  was  in  the 
thick  of  it.  I'll  tell  you " 

He  was  quite  excited  now.  And  Creighton 
283 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

couldn't  help  being  interested  as  the  man  went 
on  to  locate  the  place  which  Creighton  had  indeed 
frequented  and  to  describe  it. 

"A  good  many  of  the  strike  leaders  used  to 
come  in  there,"  he  continued.  "And  of  course,  it 
bein'  such  a  great  strike,  an'  everybody  interested, 
I  took  particular  notice.  I  don't  know's  I  ever 
heard  your  name;  but  you  used  to  be  with  the 
men  that  was  pretty  high  up  in  the  strike.  Bein' 
in  sympathy  with  the  men  that  was  out,  I  was 
keen  on  keepin'  track  of  the  way  things  was  goin'. 
Funny  thing!  before  the  strike  was  over  I  found 
myself  in  quite  a  dif'rent  camp.  Somethin'  hap- 
pened 'tween  me  'n'  the  boss,  an'  I  hiked.  You 
know  how  'tis:  when  you  hike  you  want  a  good 
change.  So  I  thought  I'd  hike  as  far's  the  Capital. 
There  was  promise  of  excitement  there.  They  got 
it,  too — though  not  the  kind  they  was  lookin'  for." 

Creighton  was  instantly  alert.  "You  mean  the 
Governor's  death  ?" 

"Yes.  I  was  almost,  you  might  say,  mixed  up 
in  that,  too." 

"Mixed  up  in  it?" 

"Well,"  laughing,  "not  so's  you  could  arrest 
me  for  an  accomplice.  But  I  happened  to  know 
something  about  the  assassin — Bardeen.  He  used 
to  hang  around  our  place — where  I  was  workin' — 
about  every  night.  And  say!  there's  things  about 
that  killin'  that  ain't  ever  got  into  print." 

284 


Old  and  New  Chivalry 

"What  kind  of  things  ?"  Creighton  was  trying 
to  keep  down  his  excitement. 

"Durn  nasty  things.  Tell  you  how  I  know. 
Bardeen,  as  I  say,  used  to  be  around  our  place  a 
lot.  It  was  quite  a  hangin'-out  place  for  men  like 
him  who  had  been  shut  out  o'  work  by  the  strike 
and  was  all  against  it." 

Here  the  narrative  had  to  stop  while  some 
dancers  were  served  with  drinks.  Creighton  could 
hardly  restrain  his  impatience. 

But  the  narrator  was  enjoying  his  recital  too 
much  to  stay  longer  away  from  it  than  was  abso- 
lutely necessary.  It  was  not  every  day  he  found 
a  listener  who  cared  to  know  how  he  was  identi- 
fied with  history. 

"Of  course,"  he  resumed,  "I  used  to  overhear 
a  lot  that  was  said  there,  too.  And  one  night — it 
was  the  night  after  the  Governor  had  got  back 
from  seein'  the  President  and  persuadin'  him  not 
to  interfere — I  got  the  drift  of  some  talk  about  a 
woman.  Seems  the  employers  that  was  so  sore 
on  the  Governor  had  been  havin'  him  watched 
awful  close,  hopin'  for  a  case  for  impeachment. 
There  was  somethin'  said  about  a  woman  goin' 
to  the  Capitol  every  day,  and  that  she  had  the  in- 
side o*  things  with  the  Governor.  Seemed  he  was 
pretty  dippy  about  her  and  used  to  meet  her  even- 
ings in  the  park.  Somebody  said  he  heard  it  was 
Bardeen's  wife.  They  called  it  a  darn  clever 

285 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

game.  Bardeen  come  in  while  they  was  talkin', 
and  they  braced  him  about  it.  He  acted  kind  o' 
crazy  at  first.  'That's  all  right,'  they  told  him; 
'ain't  nobody  here  goin'  to  give  you  away.  It's 
a  pretty  old  game,  but  it  nearly  always  works/ 
He  calmed  down  some  after  that;  but  he  hardly 
stayed  at  all.  .  .  .  Next  thing  any  of  us  knew  he'd 
shot  the  Governor.  There  was  something  queer 
about  it  that  nobody  could  make  out.  He  practi- 
cally admitted  that  the  men  he  worked  for  had 
used  his  wife  as  a  tool.  Question  is:  why  would 
he  want  to  kill  the  Governor  ?  There's  a  side  to 
that  story  that  ain't  never  got  out." 
"Have  you  told  it  to  many  people?" 
"No.  I  used  to  talk  about  it  some  when  the 
murder  was  fresh  in  everybody's  mind,  and  it  was 
thought  by  some  that  Bardeen  had  been  hired  to 
do  the  job.  But  of  late  years  I  ain't  scarcely 
thought  of  it — till  tryin'  to  place  you  got  me  think- 
in'  of  the  big  strike." 

"So  that  was  it — was  it?"  Creighton  mused  as 
he  went  home,  deeply  thoughtful.  "The  old,  old 
Delilah  game!  Poor  human  flesh!" 

The  first  meeting  of  "the  conspirators,"  as  Rod- 
man called  them,  was  not  a  long  one — chiefly  for 
lack  of  a  proper  place  in  which  to  talk.  Bruce 
Norbury  inclined  little  to  Lares  and  Penates; 
they  were  an  encumbrance.  He  had  just  now  a 

286 


Old  and  New  Chivalry 

room  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood  of  Gram- 
ercy  Park,  and  took  his  meals  at  The  Players, 
where  he  spent  also  a  great  deal  of  his  time.  He 
asked  Rodman  and  Creighton  and  Penhallow  to 
meet  him  at  the  club  Saturday  for  luncheon. 
They  talked  the  thing  over  as  well  as  they  could 
in  such  a  place,  with  dozens  of  men  they  all  knew 
going  and  coming  constantly.  Then,  when  it  be- 
came evident  that  not  much  could  be  accomplished 
there,  Irving  Penhallow  asked  the  three  others  to 
come  to  his  rooms  on  Tenth  Street  on  Sunday 
afternoon,  any  time  after  four. 

Irving  Penhallow  was  a  dapper  little  gentleman 
of  close  on  sixty-five.  He  was  small  and  delicately 
made,  and  his  movements  were  quick,  almost 
bird-like.  His  hair — what  he  had — and  his  side- 
whiskers  were  quite  snowy  white;  his  complexion 
was  pink — not  rubicund,  but  flushed  with  a 
healthy  glow  under  a  fine,  thin  skin;  and  his  eyes 
were  very,  very  blue.  He  was  wholesomeness  and 
happiness  personified. 

He  came  from  New  Hampshire,  which  he  still 
considered  the  garden  spot  of  the  universe — 
though  it  was  observable  that  he  picked  with 
some  nicety  his  seasons  of  returning  thither,  and 
they  were  never  earlier  than  May  nor  later  than 
November. 

He  had  never  married.  "Couldn't  risk  it!"  he 
always  declared  cheerily,  when  there  was  occa- 

287 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

sion  to  say  anything  about  it.  "How  could  I  ex- 
pect any  lady  to  set  her  house  in  order  and  then, 
as  soon  as  it  was  in  order,  tire  of  it  and  want  to 
begin  all  over  again?" 

Regarding  income,  Penhallow  was  one  of  those 
peculiarly  fortunate  men  who  have  enough  to  en- 
able them  to  get  a  fair  measure  of  what  they  want, 
but  not  enough  to  make  pursuit  too  easy.  Some- 
where up  among  the  granite  hills  of  his  native 
State  there  was  a  stone  quarry  which  yielded  him 
a  few  thousands  annually.  And  also,  it  was  re- 
puted, he  realized  a  rather  handsome  profit  each 
time  he  sold  out  his  collection.  When  he  went 
about  buying,  he  acted  not  only  in  his  own  interest 
but  as  a  roving  commissioner  of  a  big  decorative 
concern  in  New  York;  and  there  were  numerous 
private  collectors  for  whom  he  made  purchases. 
The  stone  quarry  had  been  a  great  help  to  him  in 
years  gone  by.  But  if  it  were  to  fail  now  he  would 
not  need  to  suffer  diminution  of  income.  There 
were  always  people  in  abundance  who  desired  his 
taste  and  his  time. 

He  used  to  shake  his  head  over  the  futility  of 
persons  who  wanted  their  antiques  discovered  for 
them.  He  could  as  easily  understand  a  man  who 
would  pay  some  one  to  go  to  the  opera  for  him  and 
bring  him  home  a  report  of  it.  And  when  he  was 
offered  round  sums  for  his  place — whatever  it  was, 
Colonial  or  Chippendale  or  Flemish — he  was  wont 

288 


Old  and  New  Chivalry 

to  say  that  it  seemed  "like  taking  candy  from 
children.  Here  I've  had  all  the  fun  and  they  want 
to  pay  me  good  money  for  a  thing  that's  no  more, 
now,  than  mere  furniture.  Using  things  isn't  liv- 
ing. It's  getting  them!" 

Creighton  was  the  first  to  arrive  on  Sunday 
afternoon.  The  house  on  Tenth  Street  was  a  few 
doors  west  of  Fifth  Avenue.  It  is  always  com- 
paratively quiet  in  that  neighborhood,  which  is 
one  of  the  most  charming  in  New  York;  but  on 
a  Sunday  afternoon  there  is  almost  a  cloistral 
hush,  broken  only  by  the  occasional  rumble  of  a 
motor  'bus  or  the  chugging  of  an  automobile — 
not  many  of  which,  however,  go  down  that  far  on 
Sunday. 

When  Creighton  rounded  the  corner  of  Tenth 
Street  the  sun  was  not  far  above  the  roof-tops  of 
Sixth  Avenue.  The  vesper  song  of  the  myriad 
birds  who  nest  in  the  vines  that  mantle  the  church 
on  the  corner  was  the  dominant  sound  here.  At 
the  end  of  the  long  block  which  stretched  away 
toward  Sixth  Avenue  was  the  Jefferson  Market 
Police  Court,  the  roaring  Elevated  overhead,  the 
clanging  trolleys  in  the  street,  and  all  around  cheap 
dinginess  and  the  .natural  environs  of  a  police 
court.  But  here !  what  order  and  what  seemliness ! 

Penhallow  had  the  parlor  floor  of  an  old  resi- 
dence that  had  long  been  a  sort  of  improvised 
apartment  house.  There  was  a  basement,  level 

289 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

with  the  street  or  not  more  than  a  step  below,  and 
a  high  stoop  of  brown  stone  with  an  iron  railing. 
A  couple  of  "bachelor  girls"  had  transformed  the 
basement  into  a  very  cozy  home,  which  began 
with  "anything  to  escape  from  boarding-houses/* 
and  was  slowly  emerging  from  chaos  into  come- 
liness, under  Irving  Penhallow's  direction. 

A  colored  man  with  a  grizzled  head  answered 
Creighton's  ring.  In  passing  through  the  front 
hall,  he  had  a  brief  impression  of  uncompromising 
commonplaceness  which  Irving  Penhallow  had 
evidently  tried  to  mitigate  but  could  not  overcome. 
Then  Uncle  Benjamin  opened  the  drawing-room 
door,  and  Creighton  stepped  into  a  world  thou- 
sands of  miles  removed  from  New  York  and  hun- 
dreds of  years  removed  from  this  present. 

The  politest  books  on  etiquette  doubtless  bid 
the  guest  to  ignore  surroundings,  whether  grand 
or  poor,  and  to  seem  to  be  aware  of  but  one  thing, 
and  that  his  host  or  hostess.  But  Irving  Pen- 
hallow  would  have  been  distinctly  hurt  if  any 
newcomer  to  his  rooms  had  followed  those  polite 
directions.  He  loved  above  all  possible  other  trib- 
utes to  him  the  involuntary  gasp  of  surprise  with 
which  persons  first  made  this  transition. 

"It — it's  like  a  fairy  tale!"  declared  Creighton 
when  he  could  say  anything  at  all. 

It  was.  One  had  a  sense  of  the  unreality  of  it 
all  as  if  it  must  be  a  dream. 

290 


Old  and  New  Chivalry 

Creighton  was  anything  but  a  connoisseur.  He 
did  not  know  even  the  names  of  the  things  he 
saw.  He  was  aware  only  of  the  effect.  Not  many 
who  came  to  wonder  and  to  admire,  could  carry 
away  any  kind  of  a  coherent  or  intelligible  story 
of  what  they  had  seen.  In  general  one  realized  a 
salon-like  effect,  for  the  two  big  parlors  with  their 
old-fashioned  high  ceilings  made  a  room  of  pro- 
portions at  least  sufficiently  ample  to  suggest  not 
too  mockingly  the  spacious  apartments  where  these 
furnishings  had  once  belonged. 

Further  than  this,  one  got  an  impression  of  walls 
hung  in  something  that  gave  the  tone  of  old  gilt 
and  was  a  most  marvellous  background  or  frame 
for  the  whole  picture.  The  ceiling  was  truly 
"filched,"  and  was  very  like — Penhallow  said — 
some  ceilings  in  the  smaller  apartments  of  the 
Pitti  Palace. 

The  other  prevailing  tint — other  than  the  old 
gilt — was  rose,  an  exquisite  semi-faded  rose.  One 
was  dimly  conscious  of  chairs  upholstered  in  this 
color.  For  the  rest,  one  took  in  no  more  than  a 
vague  notion  of  candles  burning  in  sconces  that 
looked  as  if  they  might  have  held  lights  for  Michel- 
angelo; of  Fra  Angelica  angels,  and  della  Robbia 
cherubs,  and  busts  in  painted  wood  of  Florentine 
ladies  with  meekly  parted  hair.  Near  the  rear  of 
the  apartment  was  a  table  with  a  velvet  "runner" 
and  a  dish  of  fruit  that  looked  like  a  Veronese 

291 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

picture  minus  the  gayly  gowned  people.    Even  the 
fruit  suggested  "an  Old  Master." 

The  thing  that  held  Penhallow  to  this  nearly 
perfect  apartment  was  the  lack  of  a  truly  suitable 
fireplace.  He  had  "overcome"  the  New  York 
grate  and  mantel  in  a  quite  wonderful  degree. 
But  he  would  never  be  satisfied  until  he  had  done 
much  better  than  this. 

The  glow  from  his  fire  was  grateful,  however, 
on  this  November  afternoon.  And  after  Creigh- 
ton  had  expressed  as  well  as  he  could  his  wonder 
and  admiration,  Mr.  Penhallow  took  him  in  to 
see  the  infinitely  quaint  little  bedroom  he  had 
made  out  of  what  used  to  be  known  as  "the  ex- 
tension" of  the  drawing-room  floor. 

"And  here,"  he  laughed,  opening  a  door  into  a 
perfectly  appointed  bathroom  in  the  most  modern 
style,  "is  where  I  have  an  advantage  over  Lorenzo 
the  Magnificent.  He  beat  me  on  ceilings;  but  I've 
got  him  skinned  in  facilities  for  keeping  clean." 

"And  who  keeps  this  wonderful  place  in  such 
impeccable  order — if  I  may  venture  to  inquire  ?" 

"Uncle  Benjamin.  Lorenzo  never  had  the  beat 
of  him,  either.  He's  not  only  an  ample  household 
staff,  but  a  first  gentleman  of  the  bedchamber  and 
a  court  jester — all  in  one.  He  lives  on  Sixth  Ave- 
nue; and  it  is  the  most  ardent  desire  I  have — 
next  to  that  fireplace — to  know  what  Uncle  Ben- 
jamin is  like  in  his  own  environment." 

292 


Old  and  New  Chivalry 

"Why?" 

"Well,  he  worked  once  upon  a  time  for  some 
people  I  know,  here  in  New  York,  who  were  Aboli- 
tionists and  haven't  got  over  it  yet.  They  don't 
seem  to  know  that  the  war  is  over  and  the  slaves 
are  free.  And  Uncle  Benjamin  used  to  harrow 
their  souls  with  what  he  told  them  of  the  cruelty 
to  negroes  before  the  war. 

"The  next  I  knew  of  him,  he  was  'buttle-ing* 
for  Southern  folks,  to  whom  he  had  represented 
himself  as  a  '  Jeff  Davis  nigger*  of  the  most  'un- 
reconstructible'  type.  When  I  had  a  chance  to 
get  him  I  was  filled  with  wonder  as  to  how  he 
would  commend  himself  to  me.  I  was  prepared 
to  hear  that  he  had  been  Dante's  cook  or  Lorenzo's 
body-servant.  But  he  didn't  go  into  personalities. 
He  contented  himself  with  saying  that  this  place 
made  him  feel  like  he'd  struck  'own  folks'  at  last. 
'Dar's  heaps  o'  trash  livin'  in  dis  yere  town,'  he 
says,  'an'  a  nigger  what  was  fotch  up  aris'kratic 
cain't  git  in  sohts  wid  'em  nohow.'  I  am  allowed 
to  infer  that  I  suggest  to  Benjamin  some  sort  of 
an  aristocracy  to  which  he  is  accustomed.  If  he 
worked  for  you  I'll  guarantee  he'd  claim  to  have 
been  a  'dresser*  for  Booth!" 

Creighton  laughed.  "  I  don't  wonder  you 
want  to  know  what  he  is  on  Sixth  Avenue,"  he 
said. 

When    Rodman    and    Norbury    had    arrived, 

293 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

Creighton  told  his  experience  of  the  night  before 
— or,  rather,  of  the  early  morning. 

"I  think,"  said  Penhallow,  speaking  first  after 
Creighton  had  finished,  "that  perhaps  I  can  un- 
derstand how — how  Lyman  Innes  might  be  found 
susceptible  to  such  a — such  a  snare.  He — Mrs. 
Innes  was  an  admirable  lady — a  very  admirable 
lady — but  she — she  did  not  quite  fill  his  life — 
their  tastes  were  not  similar." 

He  looked  distressed;  one  could  feel  sure  that 
nothing  less  than  loyalty  to  a  dear  dead  friend 
whose  honor  was  assailed  could  have  induced 
Irving  Penhallow  to  admit  that  any  lady  "did  not 
quite  fill"  her  husband's  life. 

Bruce  Norbury  was  a  little  less  reluctant  to 
lay  charges  against  a  dead  woman's  name.  He 
was  still  hot  with  resentment  against  her  on  Rose's 
behalf. 

"I — I  don't  want  to  be  lacking  in  courtesy," 
he  began.  "I  feel  the  delicacy  of  imputing  ill  to 
any  woman,  and  least  of  all  to  one  who  cannot 
defend  herself  against  the  imputation.  But  if 
Mrs.  Innes  was  capable  of  believing  an  anonymous 
letter,  and,  much  more,  if  she  was  willing  on  no 
better  evidence  than  that  to  destroy  her  child's 
faith — or  try  to  destroy  it — in  her  idolized  father, 
I  cannot  see  that  she  deserved  any  finicking  treat- 
ment from  any  one." 

"Except,"  interposed  Penhallow,  "that  she  was 
294 


Old  and  New  Chivalry 

a  lady;    and  one  likes  to  consider  the  deserts  of 
her  sex." 

Bruce  flushed.  "I'm  in  a  bad  place,"  he  de- 
clared. "For  you  are  an  older  man,  and  you  are 
such  a  perfect  argument  for  the  school  of  courtesy 
you  represent.  I'm  a  young  man,  and  I'm  not 
very  hopeful  that  I'm  any  kind  of  an  argument  for 
the  school  of  courtesy  I  try  to  represent.  But 
what  I  want  to  say — with  all  respect,  Mr.  Pen- 
hallow — is  that — well,  to-day  we  don't  have  consid- 
eration for  a  woman  because  of  her  sex,  but  because 
of  herself.  Perhaps  the  old  way  was  better.  But 
the  new  way  is  here.  If  a  woman  was  mean  and 
petty  and  unworthy,  why  must  we  try  to  handle 
her  with  gloves  simply  because  she  never  broke 
the  Seventh  Commandment  ?  You  won't  hesi- 
tate to  call  'the  other  woman*  a  vampire  and  a 
wanton.  Why  should  you  hesitate  to  admit  that 
the  wife  was  at  least  potentially  despicable  ?  We 
know  it  from  what  she  did  to  her  child!  I — we 
can't  get  anywhere  in  an  effort  to  understand  this 
case,  or  any  other  case  of  human  nature,  if  we've 
got  to  proceed  on  the  premise  that  a  woman  is 
without  fault  because  she  belongs  to  a  sex  that 
gives  us  nearly  all  our  angels.  We  get  the  heights 
of  human  nature  in  women;  but  we  get  the  depths, 
too.  And  there're  more  ways  to  the  depths  than 
adultery.  I  can't  believe  that  the  angels  should 
have  to  provide  whitewash  or  immunity  for  the 

295 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

mean  and  unworthy.  That's  an  unwholesome 
sentimentalism — as  unwholesome  as  the  mediaeval 
life  that  gave  it  birth.  They  shut  their  women  up 
in  musty  castles,  and  when  the  righting  fetched  a 
lull  they  made  madrigals  to  the  ladies'  eyebrows. 
Then  every  lady  was  a  paragon.  To-day  we  wel- 
come women  to  share  the  best  thing  we  have — 
which  is  life — and  we  reverence  them — some  of 
them ! — because  we  realize  how  richly  they  deserve 
it.  And  the  best  we  are  is  far  too  poor  to  give  a 
woman  who  is  good." 

Bruce  was  unconscious  of  the  length  of  his  plea. 
He  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and 
Rodman  watched  him  with  an  appreciative  eye 
— thinking  how  fine  a  figure  of  the  modern  knight 
he  was,  in  his  lean  length  which  was  far  from  be- 
ing lank;  measuring  his  equipment  for  the  pres- 
ent battlefield,  which  is  a  battlefield  of  ideas.  It 
stirred  Rodman's  sense  of  whimsicality  to  think 
of  Norbury  delivering  that  impassioned  plea — for 
he  was  really  impassioned  about  it — in  Penhal- 
low's  Florentine  drawing-room.  Rodman  was  not 
without  his  exquisite  appreciation  of  Penhallow 
and  of  the  charm  of  these  surroundings.  But  his 
pulses  leaped  with  delight  in  what  Norbury  rep- 
resented, and  in  him — in  the  full  figure  of  fine 
lusty  young  manhood  that  he  was. 

He  nodded  approvingly  at  Bruce.  Creighton's 
eyes  glowed  with  his  approbation. 

296 


Old  and  New  Chivalry 

Then  that  there  might  be  no  feeling  of  argu- 
ment Rodman  plunged  at  once  into  reminiscence 
about  the  Delilah  game  and  some  of  the  known 
parts  it  has  played  in  America's  politics. 


297 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

PENALTY    AND    PROFIT 

AFTER  leaving  Mrs.  Bristow  at  her  door  on 
Friday  evening,  Rose  and  Ansel  Rodman 
and  Davy  faced  southward  for  a  leisurely  stroll 
back  to  Washington  Square. 

"I  think,"  declared,  Rose  "Mrs.  Bristow  is  one 
of  the  most  charming  women  I  have  ever  met. 
We  had  a  memorable  afternoon  together." 

"I  wonder  what  she  thinks  of  me?"  Rodman 
groaned.  "I've  no  words  to  describe  the  way  I 
feel!" 

It  was  difficult  to  find  the  thing  to  say  that  might 
appease  him. 

"Oh,  come,  now!"  Rose  besought  him. 
"Where's  the  great  harm  ?  Most  girls  fall  in  love 
with  Johnny,  and  perhaps  many  men  fall  in  love 
with  Emily.  Mrs.  Bristow  has  a  lot  of  ripe,  sweet 
wisdom.  She  probably  knows  that  falling  in  love 
and  falling  out  again  is  a  considerable  part  of 'the 
profession'  to  members  of  it  like  Johnny  and 
Emily.  They're  not  deep  enough  in  the  art  of 
it  to  be  seriously  absorbed  by  that;  and  unless 
they've  got  an  engrossing  pursuit  'on  the  side' — 
as  so  many  of  the  lesser  players  have — there  isn't 

298  J 


Penalty  and  Profit 

really  much  else  for  them  to  do  but  engage  in  little 
romances.  They  play  at  it  prettily — and  forget 
before  the  next  season  begins.  You  know  that — 
and  we  know  it — and  why  should  we  think  Mrs. 
Bristow  doesn't  know  it?'* 

"You're  a  dear,  comforting  little  person — as  you 
doubtless  know  also!"  Rodman  replied.  "But  I 
can't  help  remembering  the  way  Mrs.  Bristow 
looked  when  she  saw  her  daughter." 

"I'll  tell  you  why  that  was,"  Rose  broke  in 
eagerly.  "  It  isn't  just  nice  of  me  to  tell  tales  on 
Emily;  but  I'm  sure  she  wouldn't  mind  if  she 
knew  it  was  for  your  consoling.  I  don't  know 
why  she  didn't  tell  her  mother  she  was  going  to 
dine  with  Johnny;  but  she  didn't.  She  said  she 
was  going  to  dinner  with  one  of  the  girls  in  the 
company.  Mrs.  Bristow  had  told  me  that.  She 
was  a  little  embarrassed  for  Emily,  I  suppose. 
Or  it  might  even  be  that  she  imagined  I  would 
think  she  had  fabricated  the  story  about  the  girl 
in  the  company!  But  I  hope  she  would  know  me 
better  than  that!" 

This  sounded  plausible  and  Rodman  tried  to 
salve  his  remorse  with  it.  But  somehow  he  was 
not  convinced. 

"And  even  if  they  are  serious!"  Rose  went  on. 
"I  don't  know  much  about  Emily;  but  I  don't 
know  where  Johnny  could  go  to  look  for  a  lovelier 
mother-in-law.  And  it  is  not  unreasonable  to 

299 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

suppose  Emily  may  be  a  good  deal  like  her.  And 
Johnny — !  Well,  I  don't  say  Johnny's  anything 
like  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar  or  the  Laws  of  the 
Medes  and  Persians.  But  he's  certainly  a  most 
adorable  person;  and  I  don't  see  how  Mrs.  Bris- 
tow  could  object  to  him  very  strongly.'* 

"Unless  she  doesn't  want  Emily  to  marry  an 
actor,"  suggested  Davy. 

"That  might  be!"  Rose  admitted.  "But  the 
impression  I  have  of  Mrs.  Bristow  is  that  she 
wouldn't  presume  to  interfere  too  far  in  trying 
to  decide  what  kind  of  a  man  could  make  her 
daughter  happiest." 

Davy  thought  the  talk  was  getting  on  ground 
dangerous  for  Rose;  he  imagined  he  could  de- 
tect a  tremor  in  her  voice.  She  had  not  mentioned 
Dudley  Prichard's  name  since  Monday  afternoon. 
Davy  was  consumed  with  tender  concern  to  know 
how  she  felt  about  Dudley;  but  he  did  not  feel  as 
if  he  had  a  right  to  ask.  Her  manner  was  reassur- 
ing. But  after  the  completeness  with  which,  for 
fifteen  years,  she  had  concealed  from  him  her 
anguish  of  mind  about  their  father,  Davy  did  not 
flatter  himself  that  his  ability  to  read  behind  Rose's 
manner,  or  to  judge  by  it  her  real  feelings,  was 
worth  very  much. 

Crossing  Herald  Square,  they  continued  down 
Broadway,  which  was  thronged  just  then  with  the 
theatre  crowds  hastening  to  the  performances. 

300 


Penalty  and  Profit 

None  of  them  ever  tired  of  this  sight;  but  to- 
night they  cared  less  about  it  than  usual. 

"Let's  stop  a  minute,"  Davy  said  when  he 
thought  he  heard  that  tremor  in  Rose's  voice. 
"I  want  to  buy  some  flowers." 

They  were  in  front  of  one  of  the  many  florists' 
shops  that  line  Broadway,  vying  in  number  with 
the  candy  shops  and  the  rhinestone  emporiums. 
Inside  the  shop,  which  presented  a  gorgeous  array 
of  autumn  foliage,  varicolored  chrysanthemums 
of  giant  size,  American  Beauties,  violets  in  thou- 
sands, orchids,  lilies  of  the  valley,  gardenias,  and 
other  fashionable  favorites,  Davy  bought  a  bunch 
of  violets  with  an  orchid  of  exquisite  fragility  and 
loveliness  tucked  into  the  heart  of  the  bunch. 

"For  the  sweetest  girl  I  know,"  he  whispered 
to  Rose  while  the  attendant  was  making  change. 
"Will  you  wear  them  ?" 

Rose's  eyes  filled.  She  thought  she  could  un- 
derstand. 

"Davy,"  she  murmured,  looking  far  more  than 
she  dared  to  say,  "you're  a  Shining  Preciousness." 
The  appellation  was  one  he  had  encountered  in 
an  Oriental  romance  and  had  told  her  about, 
knowing  she  would  enjoy  it. 

Ansel  Rodman,  too,  knew  why  Davy  wanted 
to  express  to  Rose  a  special  tenderness;  and  his 
own  eyes  were  very  "shiny"  as  he  stood  near 
the  front  of  the  shop  apparently  absorbed  in  the 

301 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

brilliant  display  in  the  window.  His  mind  was 
busy  with  "the  eternal  values,"  and  he  was  won- 
dering if  life,  which  had  dealt  tragically  with  these 
dear  children  in  many  respects,  had  not  compen- 
sated them  more  than  handsomely  in  the  quality 
of  devotion  to  one  another  which  it  had  developed 
in  them.  But  there  it  had  also,  he  had  to  reflect, 
entailed  its  inevitable  penalties.  Witness  the  suf- 
fering* which  this  present  wretchedness  was  bring- 
ing each  of  them  on  the  other's  account,  and  both 
of  them  on  Johnny's.  And  blithe,  adorablejohnny, 
who  needed  sobering  development — as  these  two 
did  not! — was  going  his  bonny  way,  care-free. 
Rodman  wished  he  knew  if  that  were  right. 

He  beamed  approvingly  on  Rose  and  Davy  as 
they  rejoined  him. 

"That's  the  value  of  critical  acumen,"  he  de- 
clared. "Davy  knows  he  couldn't  find  a  sweeter 
girl  to  give  violets  to." 

"That  isn't  acumen,  in  Davy,"  Rose  objected, 
shaking  her  head.  "That's  something  bigger — 
it's  where  his  sense  of  values  fails;  it's — love. 
Our  Davy  is  one  of  those  blessed  persons  who 
love,  not  according  to  our  deserts  at  all,  but  ac- 
cording to  his  capacity." 

Davy's  glasses  dimmed.  He  had  to  take  them 
off  and  polish  them. 

On  the  way  to  dinner  Rodman  had  an  oppor- 
tunity to  tell  Davy  that  he  had  seen  Bruce  Nor- 

302 


Penalty  and  Profit 

bury;  that  he  was  to  see  him  again  to-morrow  at 
the  club. 

"Had  you — "  stammered  Davy — "were  you — 
terribly  shocked  ?" 

Rodman  smiled — a  tender,  sad,  wise  little  smile. 
"No,  Davy,"  he  answered,  "I  was  not." 

"Had  you  heard  it  before?" 

"I  had  heard  it  hinted  at — at  the  time." 

"You  didn't  believe  it?" 

"I  didn't  think  much  about  it.  I  felt  thor- 
oughly well  assured  what  kind  of  a  man  Lyman 
Innes  had  been  in  his  best  self — and  I  knew  his 
best  must  be  his  biggest,  else  he  could  not  have 
done  what  he  did.  I  took  for  granted  that  he 
had  a  weaker  self — he  was  a  human  being — we 
all  have.  The  meaner  and  weaker  that  other  self 
was,  the  more  credit  was  due  him  for  his  triumphs 
over  it — they  must  have  been  many.  If  he  died 
in  penalty  for  his  greatest  weakness  and  not  for 
his  finest  strength,  I  could  not  see  that  he  was 
less  a  benefactor.  What  he  had  done  that  was 
excellent  remained  done.  What  was  weak  in 
him  was  interred  with  his  bones.  That  was  how 
I  felt,  then.  If  I  could  have  foreseen  how  things 
were  to  work  out,  perhaps  I  should  have  felt  dif- 
ferently— and  perhaps  I  should  not — it's  hard  to 
say,  Davy.  I  find  judgment  difficult — oh,  terri- 
bly difficult!  One  must  be  fair  about  benefits — 
you've  had  them — from  his  fame.  Perhaps  it  is 

3°3 


Children  of  ToMorrow 

not  right  that  one  should  have  those  only — and  no 
blame.  I  tell  you,  Davy,  I  don't  know!  One 
moment  I  resent,  on  your  behalf,  his  weakness — 
think  perhaps  he  might  have  fought  a  little  harder, 
for  your  sakes.  Then  I  find  myself  wondering! 
If  nobody's  to  sin,  how  shall  we  get  our  saints  ? 
I  can't  tell,  Davy!  I  used  to  feel  that  there  were 
some  things  I  knew.  But  now — I'm  never  sure. 
This  is  a  terrible  defect — it  blights  everything  I 
try  to  do — I  don't  know  how  it  came  about — I've 
always  tried  to  understand.  But  here  I'm  sixty, 
Davy,  and  I  can't  interpret  life — not  after  all  my 
trying — I  can  only  feel  it,  and — and  love  it — but 
I  can't  understand." 

Davy  was  touched,  then  amazed.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  of  the  sincerity  of  Rodman's  esti- 
mate of  himself.  He  thought  he  was  futile.  He! 
Davy  had  read  many  an  outpouring  like  this,  or 
comparable  to  it,  in  the  letters  and  journals  of 
those  who  have  put  the  world  most  profoundly  in 
their  debt;  he  had  heard  a  good  many  accents  of 
despair  from  men  among  his  own  contemporaries 
— but  he  had  also  heard  the  reaffirmations  of 
hopefulness  which  invariably  succeeded  to  them. 
He  had  taken  for  granted  that  the  feeling  of  futil- 
ity was  always  a  mood — evanescent.  He  had  felt 
sure  that  in  the  main  a  man  must  have  some  sort 
of  fair  realization  of  his  worth  to  the  world. 
Doubts  might  assail  him  briefly.  But  surely  he 

3°4 


Penalty  and  Profit 

must  have  his  seasons  of  more  than  counterbal- 
ancing assurance!  .  .  .Thus  Davy  in  his  youth 
had  ventured  to  believe.  He  had  never  glimpsed 
Ansel  Rodman  so  intimately  before.  It  was  one 
of  the  resultants  in  the  interplay  of  penalty  and 
profit  which  so  profoundly  mystified  Rodman,  that 
Davy's  sad  perplexity  was  bringing  him  closer  to 
a  big  soul's  bigness  than  he  had  ever  been  able  to 
approach  hitherto. 

Rodman  walked  as  far  as  Tenth  Street  with 
them  and  there  left  them,  saying  he  wanted  to  call 
on  one  of  his  artist  friends  in  the  Studio  Building. 
In  reality,  of  course,  he  slipped  away  because  he 
felt  sure  that  Davy  and  Rose  had  much  to  say  to 
each  other  and  were  in  the  mood  for  saying  it. 

Davy  told  Rose  about  his  talk  with  Rodman. 
It  had  impressed  him  profoundly.  Again  he 
wished  he  dared  ask  her  something  about  Prichard 
— but  felt  he  couldn't. 

When  they  got  into  the  house  they  found  several 
letters  which  had  come  in  the  afternoon  mail. 
There  was  one  for  Rose,  on  which  Davy  recog- 
nized Prichard's  handwriting — it  was  on  the  famil- 
iar letter-paper  of  The  Players,  with  the  masks  of 
comedy  and  of  tragedy  stamped  on  the  envelope's 
flap.  Davy  handed  it  to  her,  and  she  took  it 
without  a  word  and  carried  it  into  her  room  where 
she  went  ostensibly  to  remove  her  hat  and  coat. 

3°5 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

When  she  came  out  she  busied  herself  about 
putting  her  precious  violets  in  water,  handling 
them  most  carefully  so  as  not  to  let  a  drop  of  water 
fall  on  the  orchid's  fragile  petals.  But  Davy 
thought  he  could  tell  that  she  had  been  crying. 

Rose  understood.  Davy  was  not  a  subtle  per- 
son, and  she  could  not  help  being  aware  of  the 
anxiousness  with  which  he  watched  her  every 
movement.  It  did  not  seem  as  if  she  could  bear 
to  mention  her  letter.  But  she  knew  how  it  felt 
to  be  in  Davy's  present  state  of  mind.  It  wasn't 
fair  to  keep  him  so  anxious. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  Dudley,"  she  said  falter- 
ingly. 

Davy  didn't  know  how  to  reply.  "Did you?" 
he  echoed,  feeling  the  foolishness  of  the  question. 

She  handed  it  to  him  to  read.     It  began: 

Rose,  dear,  I  am  unutterably  and  intolerably  wretched. 
I  have  waited  four  days  for  word  from  you.  I  can't  wait 
any  longer.  I  must  see  you.  Monday  was  awful.  I  made 
a  mess  of  everything.  I'm  sure  I  can  make  myself  right 
with  you  if  you  will  only  give  me  the  chance.  Don't  be 
hard  on  me,  dear.  You  know  I  can't  live  without  you. 
'Phone  me  this  evening  at  the  club.  Don't  make  me  spend 
another  sleepless  night. 

Davy  read  the  letter  and  handed  ir  back  to  her. 
His  look  was  ominous. 
"Well?"  he  said. 

306 


Penalty  and  Profit 

"He  is  suffering,  too,"  she  faltered. 

"Suffering!     Do  you  believe  that,  Rose?" 

"Why— don't  you?" 

"I  believe  he's  suffering  for  you  to  call  him 
down  here  and  tell  him  to  go  ahead  and  do  what- 
ever he  likes — that  how  you  feel  about  anything 
is  immaterial.  That's  what  he's  suffering  for! 
Does  he  even  hint  at  abandoning  what  he's  about  ? 
Not  a  bit  of  it!  Does  he  say  that  his  anguish  is 
for  what  he  has  made  you  suffer  ?  I  should  say 
not!  He's  reproaching  you  for  disturbing  his  self- 
satisfaction  and  peace  of  mind.  He  says  he  can't 
live  without  you!  I  can't  see  that  it  ought  to 
matter  to  you  whether  he  does  or  not.  But  if  he 
can't,  and  it  does  matter  to  you,  what  has  he  got 
to  do  but  deny  himself  one  little  chance  to  'put 
it  over*  as  an  investigator  ?  What  he  means  is 
that  he  won't  live,  if  he  can  help  it,  without  mak- 
ing you  agree  to  him  and  to  anything  he  wants  to 
do.  Why,  he  doesn't  have  to  write  those  arti- 
cles  " 

"If  he  dropped  them  some  one  else  would  take 
them  up." 

"Well,  let  some  one  else  do  it!  He  can't  help 
that.  If  he  has  got  any  evidence  let  him  destroy 
it  and  make  revelations  at  least  that  much  harder 
for  another  man!" 

Rose  wavered.  Her  heart  had  been  touched  by 
the  note's  protestations.  She  had  not  read  it  as 

3°7 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

Davy  had.  She  wanted  to  believe  in  Dudley; 
and  her  tenderness  for  suffering  in  any  one  was 
very  great.  But  Davy's  charges  were  unanswer- 
able. 

"Davy,"  she  sobbed,  laying  her  head  against 
his  shoulder,  "I'm  a  fool — a  weak  fool.  But  I 
don't  want  to  be!  I  know  you're  right.  Don't 
you  let  me  go  near  that  telephone — will  you  ?" 


308 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HOW    EMILY    WAITED 

WHEN  Mrs.  Bristow  was  able  to  talk  to 
Emily,  after  her  disclosure — which  was 
not  until  Emily  had  sobbed  herself  into  a  state  of 
exhaustion — she  told  her,  as  graphically  as  she 
could,  the  whole  story.  Olivia  was  pleading  for 
something  dearer  to  her  than  life,  and  her  plea 
was  a  magnificently  impassioned  one.  She  told  of 
her  penurious  girlhood;  of  her  father's  "stroke" 
and  what  it  entailed  upon  her;  of  the  frequent 
bitterness  of  her  heart,  because  she  was  so  desir- 
ous to  know  life;  of  Charlie  Bardeen's  courtship 
and  his  ire  at  the  burdens  she  had  to  bear;  of 
their  marriage,  and  of  how  his  ire  against  her 
burden-bearing  died.  She  told  of  the  sense  of 
desolation  that  was  hers  when  she  realized  what 
Charlie  was  and  would  always  be,  and  of  how  she 
relinquished  any  hope  of  life  for  herself  and  put 
all  her  fervor  of  hopefulness  into  life  for  her  child. 
She  described  their  situation  when  Charlie  was 
laid  off  on  account  of  the  strike.  She  told  how 
she  had  gone  to  the  Capitol  and  been  given  the 
letters,  how  she  had  carried  them  home  and,  when 
her  cooking  and  dish-washing  were  done,  had 

309 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

read  them,  eagerly,  interestedly;  how  Charlie  had 
objected;  how  she  had  carried  the  letters  back; 
and  how  she  had  seen  Lyman  Innes. 

Emily  was  sitting  upon  the  bed  now  listening 
intently.  Her  mother  was  still  crouching  beside 
the  cot.  She  buried  her  head  when  she  spoke 
of  Lyman  Innes  and  could  not  raise  it  for  some 
seconds.  Then  she  went  on,  commanding  her- 
self with  difficulty  but  driven  by  a  desperate  ne- 
cessity. She  described  those  morning  hours  in 
the  Governor's  office.  She  told  of  the  occasional 
evenings  in  the  little  park.  She  spoke  of  the  one 
time  when  he  had  been  in  their  home  and  of  the 
one  time  when  she  had  been  in  his. 

"He  needed  me,  Emily!  Oh,  the  glory  of  it! 
I  needed  him  immeasurably;  but  he  needed  me, 
too.  We  never  complained  to  each  other.  He 
never  told  me  of  the  poverty  of  his  life,  and  I  never 
told  him  of  the  poverty  of  mine — we  understood!" 

She  went  on,  tremblingly,  to  recall  the  last  day, 
the  last  evening.  She  rehearsed  the  humiliation 
of  that  scene  with  Charlie. 

"What  he  had  heard,  or  where  he  had  heard  it, 
I  have  never  known — shall  never  know." 

Emily's  sympathies  were  entirely  withdrawn 
from  herself  now  and  centered  upon  her  mother. 
She  was  swept  by  a  great  passion  of  pity. 

"You  poor  darling!"  she  wept.  "You  poor 
darling!" 

310 


How  Emily  Waited 

The  tender  compassion  of  her  child  was  sweet 
to  Olivia  after  all  those  years  of  lonely,  wistful 
repression.  She  yearned  to  revel  in  it  and  to  for- 
get, for  a  while,  everything  else.  But  she  dared 
not.  What  she  must  do  instead  was  try  to  make 
Emily  understand  the  penalty  of  the  love  clan- 
destine. 

This,  though,  Emily  was  unwilling  to  be  made 
to  see. 

"I  think  you  know  now,"  Olivia  went  on,  "that 
love  is  very  sacred  to  me;  that  I  would  rather  be 
ruthless  with  life — which  is  mortal — than  with  love 
— which  is  immortal.  If  I  could  have  paid  in 
my  own  anguish  all  the  penalty  for  my  love,  I 
should  count  it  as  nothing  against  the  ecstasy. 
But  I  couldn't  pay  the  price  alone,  you  see.  No 
one  can  ever  assume  all  the  penalty.  It  imposes 
itself  where  it  will.  We  did  no  actual  wrong, 
Lyman  Innes  and  I,  either  to  ourselves  or  to  any 
other  creature.  But  because  we  could  not  prove 
that  to  all  the  world,  we  had  to  be  clandestine. 
And  because  we  were  clandestine,  the  worst  was 
suspected  by  your  father,  and  would  be  suspected 
— indeed,  taken  for  granted! — by  any  one  else  who 
might  happen  to  know  of  our  meetings.  Johnny 
Innes  will  never  believe  that  our  worst  crime  was 
concealment!  He  couldn't  believe  it!  He  isn't 
that  kind  of  a  man.  If  you  marry  him  without 
telling  the  truth,  and  the  truth  ever  comes  to  light, 

311 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

think  of  the  situation  you  will  be  in!  Johnny  may 
forgive  you,  but  the  world  won't.  If  it  thinks 
Johnny  married  you  knowing  all,  it  will  despise 
you  both.  If  it  thinks  you  tricked  him,  it  will 
visit  all  its  scorn  on  you.  And  Johnny,  knowing 
that  you  did  trick  him,  will  have  no  right  to  re- 
sent its  attitude,  no  ground  on  which  to  defend 
you  from  it." 

Emily  was  growing  dogged  again.  "It  hasn't 
come  out  in  fifteen  years,"  she  said,  "  and  I  don't  see 
why  we  need  suppose  that  it  will  ever  come  out." 

Her  mother  looked  at  her.  "Emily,"  she  im- 
plored, "believe  me,  who  have  suffered  so  much 
and  who  have  no  desire  left  except  for  your  happi- 
ness. If  you  marry  Johnny  with  that  secret  in 
your  heart,  you  will  never  know  a  minute's  peace. 
Every  time  his  mood  changes,  you  will  fear  that 
he  has  found  out.  Every  time  any  one  looks 
strangely  at  you,  you  will  be  in  a  panic  of  appre- 
hension. You  think  your  life,  so  far,  has  been 
hard  because  of  your  father's  crime.  I  tell  you, 
if  you  marry  Johnny  it  will  be  ten  thousand  times 
harder.  Your  closest  relation  has  always  been 
with  me,  and  you  never  had  need  to  fear  what  I 
might  think  of  you.  But  when  your  closest  rela- 
tion in  life  is  with  him,  and  you  have  always  to 
fear  what  he  would  think  of  you  if  he  knew  the 
truth,  what  refuge  from  the  world  will  you  have, 
anywhere?" 

312 


How  Emily  Waited 

"I  could  tell  him,"  Emily  answered,  "and  he 
needn't  tell  any  one  else.  If  he  hates  me  for  what 
I  couldn't  help;  if  it's  not  true  what  he  said  to 
me  about  loving  me  if  I  were  a  leper  or  the  hounds 
of  hell  were  after  me,  then — then " 

She  broke  off,  unable  to  finish,  to  put  into  words 
that  heart-breaking  possibility. 

"That  would  be  infinitely  better  than  not  tell- 
ing," Olivia  agreed.  "But — there's  this,  Emily; 
you  remember  the  Mr.  Dudley  Prichard  who  was 
at  Johnny's  house  the  evening  we  went  there?" 

Emily  nodded. 

"And  you  remember  that  he  said  he  was  going 
to  write  a  history  of  labor  struggles  in  America  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  as  he  said,  the  biggest  and  most  signifi- 
cant of  all  .those  struggles  was  the  one  of  which 
Lyman  Innes  was  the  central  figure.  He  asked 
Davy  for  his  father's  papers,  you'll  recall.  Now, 
for  one  thing,  that  man  Prichard  is  the  type  of 
man  who  ferrets  things  out.  He  has  a  reputation 
for  getting  to  the  bottom  of  things." 

"  But  he's  in  love  with  Rose !  He  wouldn't  write 
anything  about  her  father  that  wasn't  nice." 

Olivia  smiled  bitterly.  "  Perhaps  he  wouldn't," 
she  assented,  "but  perhaps  he  would.  However, 
I  thought  that  when  he  was  talking  of  what  he 
meant  to  do,  both  Rose  and  Davy  showed  signs 
of  apprehension.  Maybe  I  imagined  it.  But 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

I  believe  they  know  something  about  the  reason 
for  their  father's  death.  I  don't  believe  Johnny 
knows.  What  he  does  know  now  is  the  other 
link — the  link  that  connects  us  with  it.  ...  Now 
do  you  see  ?" 

"See?"  cried  Emily  desperately.  "I  see  that 
my  life,  my  love,  were  spoiled  for  me !  That  I  am 
helpless!  My  happiness  was  jeopardized  before 
I  had  even  learned  to  know  it.  And  there  is  noth- 
ing I  can  do  to  save  it!  We  can't  stay  here. 
There'll  never  be  any  place  where  we  can  stay. 
What  a  life  to  look  forward  to!" 

Olivia  waited  patiently  until  Emily's  outburst 
was  over.  Then,  "I  have  only  this  to  suggest," 
she  said.  "Wait!  If  Dudley  Prichard  makes  any 
disclosures,  they  will  come  before  very  long;  and 
his  making  them  will  take  the  responsibility  out 
of  my  hands.  For  though  I  think  Rose  and  Davy 
know,  I  would  hardly  dare  to  take  it  on  myself  to 
tell  them,  lest  I  am  mistaken  about  their  knowl- 
ledge.  When  Johnny  learns  the  truth  he  can 
choose.  All  I  ask  of  you  is  to  wait.  I  don't  ask 
you  to  stop  loving  him  or  even  to  stop  going  with 
him.  You  can  go  freely  now.  I  don't  want  you 
to  be  restrained  by  any  thought  of  me.  I  shall 
be  happy  knowing  that  you  are  together.  Only, 
don't  make  any  pledge,  I  beg  you.  Tell  Johnny 
you  want  to  wait.  If  he  really  loves  you,  he'll 
wait.  If  he  says  he  can't  wait,  it's  because  he 


How  Emily  Waited 

doesn't  know  what  love  means — but  misreads  an 
uglier  word  for  it.     Believe  me,  Emily!     I  know!'* 
To  this  proposition  Emily  agreed. 

It  being  matinee  day,  Emily  had  not  a  great 
while  to  wait  before  seeing  Johnny, 

She  always  enjoyed  her  Saturday  afternoons. 
"Half-hour"  was  not  called  in  the  theatre  until 
1.45,  and  between  noon  and  that  time  Broadway 
was  intensely  interesting.  Most  of  the  people  on 
it  seemed  to  have  the  half-holiday  spirit.  Thou- 
sands of  them  were  making  a  little  festivity  of 
luncheon,  after  which  they  were  going,  some  to  the 
matinees,  some  to  football  games,  some  to  golf 
courses  and  country  clubs,  and  some  to  auto  rides 
in  the  country.  Particularly  it  was  a  gala  time  for 
youth.  Hundreds  of  girls  from  the  boarding-schools 
and  from  their  homes  were  abroad  in  their  jauntiest 
street  attire;  nearly  every  one  of  them  wore  a  bunch 
of  violets  or  a  gardenia  or  a  chrysanthemum. 
They  vied  pleasantly  with  one  another  in  the  smart- 
ness of  their  tailored  suits,  the  depth  of  Irish  lace 
on  their  jabots,  the  intensity  of  somebody's  devo- 
tion which  might,  they  hoped,  be  inferred  from 
their  corsage  bouquets.  A  girl  whose  violets  had 
an  orchid  among  them  looked  pityingly  on  a  girl 
whose  violets  had  not;  and  when  occasionally  a 
girl  flashed  by  with  a  large  bunch  of  orchids  tied 
with  flowing  ribbons  of  orchid  hue,  only  the  Spar- 

3*5 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

tan  code  of  the  others  enabled  them  to  repress 
their  gasps  of  envy. 

Tons  of  sweets  were  sold.  Scores  of  soda  foun- 
tains purveyed  their  nectar  to  celebrants  whose 
pocket-money  did  not  encompass  matinee  tickets 
and  much  besides. 

Youths  were  everywhere  in  evidence — collegi- 
ans in  town  for  a  lark;  young  apprentices  to  the 
business  world  set  free  for  their  weekly  half-holi- 
day. The  former  were  joys  to  behold — and  they 
gave  the  joy  freely,  nor  allowed  any  to  get  by 
without  sharing  in  it.  Their  excesses  of  attire 
shamed  the  chorus  girls,  and  their  exuberance 
of  manner  was  enough  to  make  a  soubrette  feel 
downcast. 

Mingled  in  the  throng  of  shoppers,  holiday- 
makers,  and  workers  out  for  their  nooning  were 
hundreds  of  theatrical  folk  on  their  sauntering  way 
to  work.  They  had  breakfasted  late;  they  must 
dine  early.  This  was  their  time  for  sunning  them- 
selves before  they  entered  stuffy  dressing-rooms  in 
the  musty-smelling  theatres.  It  was  the  delight 
of  the  matinee  crowds  to  identify  favorites  among 
the  Thespians.  It  was  the  delight  of  the  Thes- 
pians to  be  identified. 

Emily  dearly  loved  this  Saturday  gayety.  Even 
to-day  she  could  not  be  callous  to  it.  In  the  room 
they  called  home — she  and  her  mother — with  the 
beds  unmade,  the  untasted  breakfast  cluttering 

316 


How  Emily  Waited 

the  little  table — one  resigned  one's  self  easily  to 
tragedy  as  to  the  grim  fate  that  waits  for  all.  Out 
here,  in  the  brilliant  autumn  sunshine,  with  laugh- 
ter and  the  love  of  life  on  every  side,  one  denied 
the  right  of  tragedy  to  rule  young  hearts! — es- 
pecially old  tragedy  covered  with  the  ashes  of 
fifteen  dead  years. 

Johnny  was  at  their  rendezvous  at  twelve  o'clock. 
He  was  radiant.  Emily  could  not  tell  him  then. 

"Come  on  shopping!"  he  cried. 

"Shopping?" 

"Sure!  We're  going  to  buy  an  engagement 
ring." 

Johnny  had  borrowed  fifty  dollars  that  morning, 
from  Davy.  After  the  matinee  the  "  ghost  walked" 
— meaning  the  business  manager  of  the  company 
would  knock  at  Johnny's  dressing-room  door  and 
leave  an  envelope  containing  a  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars.  Johnny  had  figured  that  "some  ring" 
could  be  bought  for  two  hundred. 

Emily  hung  back.  "We  don't  want  to  an- 
nounce it — yet,"  she  murmured.  "And  if  I  wear 
a  ring " 

"Why  don't  we  want  to  announce  it?" 

"Well — mother  asked  us  not  to — not  to  be  en- 
gaged until  we  had  taken  more  time  to  consider." 

"Consider?  I  have  considered!  I'm  through 
considering.  I  know  what  I  want.  And  I  want 
what  I  want  when  I  want  it." 

31/ 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"I  promised — "  began  Emily  faintly. 

"You  promised  me  last  night  that  you'd  marry 
me.  I  supposed  you  meant  it." 

"I  did — I  do — but  mother  said " 

Johnny  turned  away.     He  said  nothing. 

"She  asked  us  not  to  be  engaged — just  yet," 
Emily  went  on  desperately.  "She  doesn't  mind 
our  being  together  all  we  want  to,  but  she  thinks 
we  ought  not  to  be  hasty — that  if  we  truly  love 
each  other  we  will  not  mind  waiting " 

Johnny  made  no  reply.  At  the  corner  of  Forty- 
fourth  Street  he  stopped  and  lifted  his  hat.  Two 
girls  who  were  passing  recognized  him  and  gave 
a  little  gasp  of  delight.  Standing  in  the  noon  sun- 
shine, with  his  head  bared,  Johnny  was  undenia- 
bly beautiful  to  behold. 

"Whe — where  are  you  going?"  Emily  faltered. 

"  I  think  that,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  I'll  go  to  The 
Lambs  and  see  if  I  have  any  mail."  (Johnny  had 
just  come  from  The  Lambs  and  his  mail  was  in 
his  pocket.) 

Emily  clutched  at  him  entreatingly. 

"And  not  buy  the  ring?" 

Johnny  understood  capitulation  when  he  saw 
it.  He  yielded  forgivingly. 

Emily  told  herself  she  could  manage  some  way 
to  conceal  or  to  explain  the  ring. 


318 


CHAPTER  XX 

LUCIUS    HAS    A    PARTY 

WHEN  Sunday  evening  came,  Lucius  won- 
dered whether  Catherine  would  think  he 
was  crazy  if  he  asked  her  out  to  dine.  He  had 
been  thinking  of  her  all  day  and  it  seemed  a  long 
time  since  he  had  parted  from  her — before  mid- 
night last  night. 

He  wished  that  he  had  asked  her  where  she  was 
in  the  habit  of  dining.  He  might  have  "happened 
in"  and  joined  her. 

Savory  odors  were  coming  up  from  Wing's 
kitchen.  If  only  when  Wing  spread  the  dinner 
table,  up  here  by  the  hard-coal  fire,  it  might  be 
spread  for  two!  Somewhere,  in  a  wretched  little 
"joint"  where  only  the  dispirited  go,  Catherine 
would  be  sitting  down  to  a  meal  that  neither 
nourished  the  body  nor  cheered  the  soul.  He 
made  some  mental  computations.  Davy,  in  ask- 
ing Lucius  if  something  could  not  be  done  to 
give  Catherine  a  better  chance,  had  said  that  it 
was  doubtful  if  she  earned  more  than  six  dollars 
a  week.  Six  dollars !  Lucius  wondered  how  much 
one  may  spend  for  dinner  when  one  makes  six 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

dollars  a  week.  Fifteen  cents  ?  Not  more,  cer- 
tainly. Even  that  would  be  unwarranted  extrav- 
agance. Ten  cents  ?  Was  it  possible  that  a  girl 
like  Catherine  ate  ten-cent  dinners  ?  Men  did, 
of  course — thousands  of  them  every  day.  But 
girls  ?  Girls  with  a  mind  like  hers !  With  a  soul 
on  fire  for  humanity's  help! 

Lucius  got  up  out  of  his  Morris  chair  and  strode 
up  and  down  the  room  a  dozen  times.  Then  he 
went  downstairs  and  into  the  kitchen — a  place  he 
seldom  visited. 

Whatever  surprise  Wing  may  have  felt,  he  con- 
cealed as  a  Celestial  does. 

"What  you  got  for  dinner,  Wing?"  Lucius 
asked,  lifting  the  lid  of  a  pot  and  peering  in. 

"Sloup — guma-bo.  Fine  stleak.  O'Bri'  pota*. 
Chillyflo'— make  Hollandlais— sala' " 

McCurdy  checked  the  enumeration.  He  under- 
stood Wing's  curtailed  speech:  gumbo  soup  (and 
oh!  how  Wing  could  make  it!) — a  thick  tenderloin 
steak — potatoes  O'Brien  (never  a  sliver  too  much 
or  too  little  of  chopped  peppers  in  them,  nor  a 
shade  of  false  proportion  between  the  fresh  green 
pepper  and  the  pimento) — cauliflower  with  sauce 
Hollandaise — a  salad;  probably  French  endive, 
with  Wing's  unapproachable  French  dressing,  for 
which  he  used  five  kinds  of  pepper,  two  kinds  of 
vinegar  (for  flavoring  merely),  abundance  of  oil, 
and  a  haunting  suspicion  of  garlic.  Then  there 

320 


Lucius  Has  a  Party 

would  be  the  coffee  percolator,  bubbling  and  send- 
ing forth  a  perfume  that  would  tempt  an  anchor- 
ite. Lucius  drank  little — almost  none  at  all  when 
alone;  but  after  he  had  had  his  coffee,  and  had 
lighted  his  cigar,  he  would  probably  pour  himself 
a  tiny  cordial  glassful  of  cognac  or  Benedictine 
or  Chartreuse,  appreciating,  as  he  did  so,  the  liquid 
gold  of  it  in  the  brilliant  rock  crystal  glass.  Then, 
with  the  glow  of  it  sensible  all  through  him,  he 
would  sit  and  smoke  and  blow  out  fairy  rings 

No!  he  would  not!  Not  with  that  ten-cent  din- 
ner haunting  him. 

"How  long?"  he  asked  Wing — meaning  how 
long  till  dinner  would  be  ready. 

"Hlaf-hour?"  answered  the  Celestial  with  a 
rising  inflection  intended  to  denote  that  he  hoped 
that  time  would  be  satisfactory. 

"Could  you  make  it  an  hour?" 

He  could.  Nothing  was  under  way  except  the 
soup. 

"Is  there  enough  for  three?" 

Wing  nodded.  He  knew  his  master's  impulsive- 
ness too  well  ever  to  make  close  calculations.  And 
if  there  were  much  left,  one  had  never  to  look  far 
for  hungry  mouths  that  would  welcome  it — and 
gratefully  remember. 

"Wait!     I'll  tell  you  in  a  minute." 

With  the  impetuosity  of  a  boy,  Lucius  dashed 
upstairs  to  the  telephone. 

321 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

Rose  answered. 

"Who's  there  ?"  Lucius  asked  her  when  he  had 
made  sure  she  knew  to  whom  she  was  talking. 

"Oswald  Seever  and  Sam  Hamilton  and  Davy 
and  I." 

"Do  you  want  to  do  me  the  biggest  favor  that 
anybody  ever  did  ?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  do — if  I  can." 

"Will  you  come  down  here  to  dinner — to- 
night?" 

"Is  that  the  biggest  favor ?" 

"It  is,  Rose!  I  can't  tell  you  over  the  'phone, 
but  I  will  when  I  see  you.  I  want  to  ask  Miss 
Krakopfsky  here,  and  I  know  she  wouldn't  come 
alone.  I'm  frank,  you  see!  But  I'm  sure  you'll 
forgive  me  when  I  tell  you  why  I  ask.  Those 
three  fellows  can  eat  their  salad  without  you!" 

"Hold  the  wire  a  minute  and  I'll  see,"  she  an- 
swered. 

When  she  explained  to  the  three  men  they  urged 
her  to  go. 

"I'll  come,"  she  told  Lucius.  "Does  Cather- 
ine know?" 

"That's  the  deuce  of  it,"  he  admitted.  "I  just 
thought  of  this,  and  got  Wing  to  put  off  dinner 
for  an  hour.  And  it's  such  a  beastly  distance  up 
to  Twenty-fourth  Street.  I'll  'phone  a  taxi  to  be 
at  your  house  in  twenty  minutes,  and  I'll  be  there 
by  that  time.  Good-by!" 

322 


Lucius  Has  a  Party 

Rose  dressed  the  salad  and  laid  out  the  accom- 
paniments for  their  simple  supper  so  the  men 
could  serve  themselves  without  difficulty.  Then 
she  got  herself  ready  and  when  Lucius  rang  she 
called  down  to  him: 

"Don't  come  up — I'll  be  there  in  a  jiffy." 

"I'm  awfully  sorry  I  can't  ask  you  all,"  he 
apologized.  "Ask  Davy  to  come  down  after  a 
while,  if  he  can." 

"I  will." 

She  whispered  his  message  to  Davy  when  she 
kissed  him  good-by. 

Lucius  was  in  a  fever  of  impatience  which  he 
tried  to  explain  to  her  as  best  he  could  while  they 
were  whirling  over  to  Third  Avenue  and  Twenty- 
fourth  Street. 

Rose  was  intensely  sympathetic,  as  he  had 
known  she  would  be. 

"I — I  felt  a  beast  to  sit  down  to  that  dinner 
alone,"  Lucius  explained.  "I've  done  it  often, 
of  course,  but  it  was — different.  I  knew  there 
were  men  who  were  hungry;  and  I  cared,  of  course. 
But  a  girl!  I  never  thought  before  about  the 
girls.  She  told  me  so  many  things  last  night — 
we  were  down  around  Grand  Street — Creighton 
was  with  us — I  hadn't  even  realized  how  it  is  for 
a  girl — a  girl  such  as  she  is!  I — I  got  to  thinking 
of  her  eating  a  ten-cent  dinner,  and  I — well,  I 
felt  sure  you'd  understand." 

323 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"I  do!"  Rose  assured  him  —  meaning  more 
than  he  supposed  she  meant.  "And  I'm  glad 
you  thought  of  me.  If  Catherine  isn't  home,  I 
shall  be  so  disappointed!" 

She  was  not  at  home.  Lucius  had  begged 
Rose  to  go  up  alone  and  ask.  He  knew  Cather- 
ine had  no  place  to  ask  him  into,  and  he  hated  to 
embarrass  her.  "Just  say  you  were — were  com- 
ing down  to  dine  with  me,"  he  suggested,  "and 
you — you  thought  you'd  like  to  pick  her  up  for  a 
— a  chaperone." 

Under  cover  of  the  cab's  friendly  dusk,  Rose 
dared  to  smile. 

"All  right,"  she  answered. 

But  Catherine  was  not  there. 

Mollie  was,  however,  and  she  was  overjoyed  to 
see  Rose. 

"I  came  to  see  Catherine  this  time,"  Rose  ex- 
plained. "But  I'm  always  glad  to  see  you,  you 
know.  Have  you  any  idea  where  Catherine  is?" 

"  I  s'pose  she's  gone  to  'er  dinner,"  Mollie  opined. 

"Was  Sonia  with  her?" 

"No'm— she  had  a  date." 

"A  what?" 

"A  date — a  bid  off'n  a  fella — a  swell  fella,  she 
tol'  me. — But  she  don't  want  Cath'rine  to  know. 
Don't  yeh  tell  'er,  will  yeh  ?  Cath'rine  says  no 
swell  fella  could  mean  good  t'  the  likes  o'  them. 
They're  jest  amusin'  theirselves,  she  says." 

324 


Lucius  Has  a  Party 

"When  did  she  tell  you  that?" 

"She  told  it  to  me  this  very  day." 

"Do  you  know  where  she  goes  to  eat?" 

"I  know  some  places  where  she  goes." 

"Will  you  show  me?" 

"Sure  I  will." 

Mollie  was  ecstatic  when  she  got  downstairs  and 
saw  the  taxi.  "Oh,  gee!"  she  cried. 

At  least  a  score  of  children  were  there  to  see  her 
get  in. 

"Look  at  Mollie!"  they  shrilled.  "Ain't  she 
puttin'  on  lugs?  Who's  yer  Vanderbilt  frien's?" 

Mollie  loved  the  mild  sensation  so  much,  that  it 
was  not  in  Rose  or  Lucius  to  regret  it. 

"Tell  'im  to  go  'round  on  Secon'  Avena,"  she 
directed,  "an'  w'en  we  come  to  the  place,  I'll  holler 
out.  She  eats  here  more'n  any  place." 

In  a  moment  after  they  had  turned  into  Second 
Avenue,  Mollie  "hollered,"  and  they  drew  up  in 
front  of  what  Mollie  called  "a  eat  shop." 

The  front  of  it  had  once  been  painted  white — 
but  that  was  long  ago.  Outside  stood  signs  the 
size  that  "sandwich  men"  carry,  the  long  legends 
on  them  reading: 

Pork  Chops,  ice 
Small  Steak  toe 
Ham  and  Eggs  150;  etc. 

Potatoes,  bread,  butter,  and  coffee,  tea  or  milk,  included. 
Coffee  and  3  rolls  or  doughnuts,  5C. 

325 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

The  windows  were  multitudinously  fly-specked 
— memorials  of  last  summer's  flies — but  the  food 
they  displayed  had  doubtless  grown  inured  to 
specks  before  it  got  there.  There  was  a  mound  of 
pork  chops  in  one  of  the  windows,  and  a  few 
heads  of  exceedingly  limp  leaf-lettuce,  a  half-dozen 
tomatoes,  several  cans  of  "sugar  corn,"  and  an 
altitudinous  pile  of  doughnuts,  flanked  by  a  row 
of  pies  and  two  bottles  of  yellow  salad  dressing. 

Within,  there  was  a  long  counter  on  one  side 
of  the  room  and  a  row  of  tables,  each  seating  four, 
on  the  other  side.  A  dozen  men  and  boys  were 
perched  upon  stools  before  the  counter,  eating 
hungrily.  At  the  tables,  which  were  spread  with 
villainously  dirty  cloths  and  set  with  the  thickest 
white  stoneware,  were  more  than  a  score  of  per- 
sons: girls,  alone  and  in  couples;  middle-aged  men 
and  women,  invariably  alone  and  looking  as  if 
they  never  knew  what  it  was  to  eat  a  social  meal 
even  for  ten  cents;  and  one  young  fellow  with  a 
girl,  evidently  his  "friend" — both  of  them  hard- 
working youngsters,  doubtless,  and  denizens  of  a 
cheap  lodging  somewhere  in  the  vicinity;  each  of 
them  had  been  intolerably  alone,  no  doubt,  and 
they  had  crept  together  for  a  bit  of  companion- 
ship of  a  sort  unhallowed,  but  surely  not  unpar- 
donable where  all  is  understood. 

Lucius  would  not  allow  Rose  to  go  in  alone,  and 
he  thought  that  one  person  entering  on  a  quest 

326 


Lucius  Has  a  Party 

would  create  less  stir  than  two  or  three,  so  he  went, 
leaving  Rose  and  Mollie  in  the  cab. 

"He's  a  swell  guy,  ain't  he?"  Mollie  com- 
mented when  his  back  was  turned.  "Does  he 
know  Cath'rine?" 

"He  met  her  at  my  house  a  week  ago,"  Rose 
answered.  "And  he  isn't  a  swell.  He's  a  hard- 
working young  lawyer,  and  he  lives  on  the  East 
Side,  'way  down  near  Chinatown." 

"He  don't  look  it!"  Mollie  observed  shrewdly. 
"No  more'n  your  brother  does — the  one  I  give 
Goitie  Moiphy  to." 

"Who  taught  you  the  poem  about  Goitie?" 

"A  fella  Sonia  knows.  He's  awful  funny.  He 
knows  all  kin'  o'  things  like  that.  Cath'rine  says 
he  reads  'em  in  the  Joinal  an'  hears  'em  in  the 
cheap  shows.  She  don't  like  him  much.  But 
Sonia  does.  Cath'rine's  all  for  books — but  Sonia's 
pretty." 

Rose  was  impressed  by  Mollie's  "but";  it  ex- 
pressed unmistakably  what  she  thought  of  books 
and  beauty.  Catherine  tried  to  find  consolation, 
entertainment,  life  in  books — "  but  Sonia's  pretty." 
Life  was  hers  by  divine  right. 

Lucius  was  diffident  about  entering.  He  could 
not  help  being  aware  that  he  looked  sufficiently 
unlike  its  patrons  to  be  an  object  of  curiosity 
there. 

He  glanced  quickly  down  the  line  of  tables. 

327 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

Catherine  saw  him,  and  half  rose  from  her  seat, 
her  cheeks  burning. 

There  was  a  vacant  seat  across  from  her,  and 
he  motioned  her  that  he  would  take  it. 

"Miss  Innes  is  outside — in  a  cab — "  he  began 
bashfully.  "She  said  she  would  come  down  and 
dine  with  me  if  I  could  get  you  to  come,  too.  We 
went  to  your  house,  and  Mollie  brought  us  here/* 

"I — I  have  just  ordered  my  dinner,"  she  fal- 
tered. 

"Couldn't  you — donate  it  to  some  one?"  he 
ventured. 

An  elderly  woman  had  sat  down  beside  Cather- 
ine, but  her  order  was  not  yet  taken.  She  could 
not  help  overhearing  the  conversation. 

"I'll  take  your  order,"  she  offered.  "I  guess 
there  ain't  so  much  variety  in  'em  here  but  what 
I  can  make  out  with  one's  well's  with  another." 

She  seemed  to  understand  and  to  sympathize. 
Her  manner  said:  "Jest  you  go  'long  an'  have  your 
little  treat — mebbe  the  day '11  come  all  too  soon 
when  you'll  be  like  me,  an'  nothin'  '11  ever  happen 
to  you." 

Catherine  thanked  her  heartily — and  went. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  we  found  you!"  Rose  cried 
delightedly,  when  Lucius  and  Catherine  appeared 
at  the  cab  door.  Now  that  Catherine  was  found, 
though,  Rose  was  thinking  of  Mollie.  She  knew 
how  Mollie  would  feel,  being  "dropped"  in  a  min- 

328 


Miss  Innes  is  outside — in  a  cab — "  he  began  bashfully 


A 


nobi- 


Lucius  Has  a  Party    * 

ute,  and  thanked,  and  dismissed — to  the  compa 
of  the  "step-"  and  the  gilded  horse. 

"Lucius,"  she  said,  leaning  forward  in  the  cr  • 
"I've  got  to  do  a  dreadfully  rude  thing — I  *- 
whisper  to  you.     I  know  the  others  will  pa. 
me." 

Lucius  inclined  an  ear  and  Rose  whispere  : 
"  If  Mollie  could  go,  she  could  eat  my  share." 

He  patted  the  hand  she  had  laid  on  his  knee  to 
steady  herself  while  the  taxi  lurched. 

"Mollie,"  he  said,  "if  you  would  honor  us, 
we'd  be  delighted  to  have  you  go  along." 

"The  honor's  mine,"  declared  Mollie  promptly. 

They  all  laughed. 

"Ain't  it  right?"  she  inquired  anxiously. 
"They  say  it  in  the  theayter." 

Lucius  had  misgivings  as  to  his  dinner  from 
Mollie's  point  of  view.  He  told  the  driver  to  go 
over  to  Fourth  Avenue  and  stop  at  Horton's, 
where  he  got  out  and  acquired  ice-cream  and  cake. 

Catherine  could  not  say  much.  Her  heart  was 
beating  tumultuously,  and  she  was  painfully  self- 
conscious.  Lucius  was  thrilled  with  the  sense  of 
a  delicious  adventure.  Rose  had  never  seen  him 
in  so  gay  a  mood.  More  than  once,  in  the  kindly 
dark,  her  own  eyes  filled;  but  she  winked  the  tears 
resolutely  away.  The  shallowness  and  selfish- 
ness of  Dudley's  affection  had  hurt  her  much 
more  deeply  than  any  one  she  knew  was  able  to 

329 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

understand.  Most  people  think  that  the  discov- 
ery of  a  man's  unworthiness  ought  to  make  it 
easy  for  a  woman  who  has  loved  him  to  put  him 
out  of  her  heart.  It  ought  to,  but  it  doesn't — 
always. 

Wing's  dinner  was  perfection,  and  Mollie's  ap- 
proval of  the  ^Eolian  and  the  Victrola  was  with- 
out stint. 

While  the  impromptu  concert  was  in  progress, 
Wing  announced  a  caller. 

Lucius  was  annoyed.  "Who  is  it?"  he  asked, 
frowning. 

"Ol'  mlan — glirl  gone,"  Wing  answered. 

"All  right — I'll  see  him,"  he  told  the  Celestial. 
"It's  the  man  who  was  here  the  night  you  and 
Davy  and  Creighton  dined  here,"  he  went  on, 
addressing  Rose.  "He  haunts  me — poor  soul! 
Seems  to  think  there  is  something  I  could  do. 
But  I've  done  all  I  can." 

When  he  was  gone,  Rose  explained  to  Cather- 
ine about  the  caller.  Mollie  was  absorbed  in  the 
Victrola  and  could  hear  nothing  else — not,  how- 
ever, that  any  one  need  have  been  shy  about  dis- 
cussing harlotry  before  Mollie;  she  was  used  to  it. 

In  a  few  minutes  Lucius  reappeared.  "I  won- 
der," he  said,  looking  at  Catherine,  "if  this  isn't 
a  case  for  you  ?  He  knows  now  where  his  girl 
is,  but  he  can't  get  her  to  come  home.  Would 
you  talk  to  him  ?  I  told  him  I  had  a  party  of 

33° 


Lucius  Has  a  Party 

guests  upstairs,  and  among  them  one  who — who 
could  help  him  far  more  than  I  could." 

"At  least  I  can  try,"  Catherine  responded. 

Rose  and  Mollie  continued  to  make  music. 
After  fifteen  minutes  or  thereabouts,  Rose  heard 
the  street  door  close.  But  Lucius  and  Catherine 
did  not  come  upstairs. 

It  was  an  hour  later  when  Davy  rang,  and  they 
came  up  bringing  him  with  them. 

"That  poor  old  man,  who  was  here  the  other 
night  when  you  were,  came  again,"  Lucius  was 
explaining  to  Davy,  "and  Miss  Krakopfsky  was 
good  enough  to  go  down  and  talk  to  him.  He's 
just  gone." 

"Just"!  Oh,  telltale  little  word!  Rose  knew 
what  it  meant  when  an  hour  sped  by  on  wings  as 
of  the  wind. 

She  looked  at  Lucius  and  at  Catherine.  They 
were  both  illumined  as  with  some  inner  shining. 
Did  *  Catherine  believe  now  that  swell  fellows 
"only  amuse  theirselves"  with  poor  girls?  And 
could  it  be  possible  that  Lucius  was,  even  thought- 
lessly, capable  of  such  cruelty  ? 

Davy  was  glad  to  see  Catherine.  He  had  some- 
thing that  he  was  eager  to  tell  her. 

"I  was  talking  about  you  to  Mary  Todd,"  he 
said.  "You  know?  She's  one  of  the  cleverest 
women  in  the  country — writer,  editor,  social  in- 
vestigator. She  says  she  doesn't  see  why  you 

33 i 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

couldn't  learn  proof-reading.  It  would  pay  you 
well — twenty  dollars  a  week,  anyway — and  would 
bring  you  in  contact  with  people  who  would  ap- 
preciate you  and  whom  you  would  find  companion- 
able; that  is,  if  we  could  find  for  you — as  Miss 
Todd  thinks  we  could — a  place  in  one  of  the  smaller 
editorial  offices.  It's  an  excellent  way  to  work  into 
something  else — like  manuscript  reading  or  the 
like  of  that.  Stenography  and  proof-reading  are 
the  two  best  'wedges'  for  entering  editorial  work." 

"How  could  I  learn  to  read  proof?" 

Davy  flushed.  "I — if  you  would  allow  me,  I 
should  be  so  glad  to  show  you — evenings,"  he 
offered  shyly. 

Catherine  looked  her  gratitude.  She  dared  not 
try  to  speak  it. 

"Do  you  think  I  can  learn  ?"  she  murmured. 

"Why,  there's  almost  nothing  to  learn — for 
you,"  he  declared. 

And  then  he  went  on  to  quote  the  time-honored 
joke  about  the  qualifications  of  a  proof-reader, 
who  must  be  "an  individual  of  wide  culture,  fa- 
miliar with  French,  German,  Italian,  Latin,  and 
Greek;  educated  in  the  sciences;  expert  in  geog- 
raphy; facile  in  classical  allusions;  versed  in  my- 
thology; keen  to  detect  the  smallest  error  in  quo- 
tations from  the  standard  authors;  infallible  in 
spelling;  inexorable  in  matters  of  English  prose 
style;  thoroughly  posted  on  contemporaneous  per- 

332 


Lucius  Has  a  Party 

sonages  and  problems";  and  so  on  and  so  on,  ad 
infiniium.  This,  he  explained,  is  what  a  really 
good  proof-reader  should  be.  But  the  difficulty 
of  commanding  all  those  gifts  and  graces  at 
"twenty  per"  made  the  really  good  ones  evolve 
all  too  rapidly  out  of  proof-reading  and  into  col- 
lege presidencies,  "where,  I  doubt  not,"  he  con- 
cluded gallantly,  "you  will  presently  be  found." 

Catherine  looked  a  little  dazed,  as  if  unable  to 
make  up  her  mind  whether  this  were  real  or  some 
kind  of  jest.  But  Davy's  manner  was  completely 
reassuring. 

"When  do  you  want  to  begin?"  he  asked. 

"To-morrow,"  she  answered  quietly. 

Lucius  was  abundantly  satisfied  with  the  success 
of  his  party. 


333 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    NIGHT    COURT 

WING  got  a  "  night  off"  on  Monday.  Lucius 
had  an  engagement  in  the  Cherry  Hill  dis- 
trict, but  he  couldn't  bear  the  thought  of  dining 
alone  at  home.  It  was  even  less  endurable  after  he 
had  seen  that  place  where  Catherine  ate  than  it  had 
been  before.  He  dined  at  Hahn's,  and  went  about 
his  business — his  mind  up  at  Washington  Square 
where  a  first  lesson  in  proof-reading  was  scheduled 
to  be  going  on.  Tuesday  evening  he  had  a  ban- 
quet to  attend.  Catherine  had  said  that  she 
would  dine  with  him  on  Wednesday,  so  Wing 
got  another  night  off. 

Lucius  came  home  before  going  up  to  Twenty- 
fourth  Street,  and  while  he  was  "brushing  up  a 
bit,"  as  he  called  a  rather  prolonged  uncertainty 
over  neckties,  word  came  to  him  that  his  most 
persistent  caller  was  downstairs. 

The  old  man  had  heard  from  his  girl.  She  was 
under  arrest. 

"She  got  some  wan  t'  tilliphone  me,"  he  sobbed. 
"She  was  tuk  up  this  afternoon,  in  Fifteent'  Strate 
about  four  o'clock." 

334 


The  Night  Court 

"She'll  be  at  the  night  court,"  Lucius  said. 
"  I'll  be  there.  Now,  don't  worry.  This  is  prob- 
ably the  very  best  thing  that  could  have  happened 
to  her.  I'll  see  the  Judge  and  tell  him  about  her. 
You  be  there — Jefferson  Market — Sixth  Avenue 
and  Tenth  Street — at  nine  o'clock." 

Lucius  took  Catherine  to  a  place  on  East 
Twenty-first  Street,  where  they  had  an  Italian 
table-d'hote  of  the  usual  inexpensive  sort,  and 
where  Catherine's  shabbiness  was  not  likely  to  be 
in  uncomfortable  contrast  to  the  gowning  of  the 
other  women  present. 

Lucius  was  not  addicted  to  the  table-d'hote. 
There  was  not  one  in  all  New  York  to  which  he 
would  have  gone  as  a  matter  of  personal  prefer- 
ence. But  to-night  he  was  more  than  pleased  with 
his  dining.  What  he  ate  mattered  little  to  him. 
What  made  the  occasion  memorable  was  that  for 
the  first  time  he  was  sitting  across  a  table  from 
Catherine — just  they  two  together  out  of  all  the 
world. 

Catherine  wore  a  clean  white  shirt-waist;  it  was 
cheap  and  coarse  and  ill-fitting,  but  it  was  freshly 
laundered  (by  herself  on  Sunday),  and  she  looked 
attractive  because  she  was  happy.  Her  shabby 
suit  was  not  poor  enough  to  obtrude  itself;  one 
overlooked  it,  naturally,  and  saw  her  radiant  face 
instead.  She  was  too  instinctively  a  lady  to  wear 
a  distressful  hat — she  had,  in  fact,  no  fall  hat  yet, 

335 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

but  her  black  straw  sailor  was  genteel  and  becom- 
ing. She  was  unhappily  conscious  at  times  of 
her  work-roughened  hands;  but  her  absorption  in 
the  conversation  left  her  few  intervals  for  self- 
consciousness. 

They  lingered  as  long  as  they  could  over  their 
meal,  then  went  down  the  stoop  and  turned  west 
in  Twenty-first  Street. 

It  was  not  quite  eight  o'clock. 

"If  we  walk  along  slowly,"  he  said,  "we'll  just 
about  get  there  at  8.30  or  so — in  time  to  have  a 
little  talk  with  the  Judge  and  with  our  Aggie 
Donahue,  if  she's  there." 

"Won't  she  surely  be  there?" 

"Almost  surely,  if  she  was  arrested  for  the  rea- 
son we  suppose.  But  it's  impossible  to  know  ex- 
actly when  she'd  be  brought  in  there.  They  send 
the  prisoners  along  when  they  get  a  load.  She 
may  have  been  taken  there  direct.  Donahue 
didn't  say  what  part  of  Fifteenth  Street  she  was 
arrested  in." 

Aggie  was  there — in  the  women's  pen.  (Sep- 
arate court  for  women  was  not  yet  instituted.) 

There  were  perhaps  a  dozen  women  and  girls 
sitting  in  the  pen  when  Lucius  and  Catherine  went 
up  to  the  bars. 

The  pen  was  about  fourteen  feet  square,  and 
a  narrow  wooden  bench  ran  around  three  sides  of 
it.  The  walls  were  of  whitewashed  stone,  and  the 

336 


The  Night  Court 

pen  was  well  lighted  with  electricity.  Next  to  it 
was  the  receiving  pen  for  male  prisoners. 

One  of  the  women  in  the  cell  with  Aggie  was 
dead  drunk.  Several  times  her  fellow-prisoners 
had  picked  her  up  off  the  stone  floor  and  laid  her 
on  the  bench;  but  she  always  rolled  off  again.  She 
was  a  middle-aged  white  woman  in  a  calico  wrap- 
per— hatless  and  coatless.  The  probability  was 
that  she  was  an  otherwise  respectable  woman,  a 
tenement-house  mother  with  "the  failing."  Per- 
haps her  children  were  frenziedly  seeking  her; 
perhaps  they  were  not  too  particular  whether  she 
came  home  or  not. 

There  was  a  big  negress,  exhilarated  from  re- 
cent snuffing  of  "coke"  (cocaine);  she  would  be 
morose  and  terribly  troublesome  before  morning. 
A  woman  arrested  for  shoplifting  was  weeping 
hysterically.  An  emaciated  creature  charged  with 
violation  of  the  tenement-house  act  was  giving 
vent,  spasmodically,  to  bursts  of  shrill  despair. 
"I  got  a  sick  kid  at  home!"  she  wailed.  "What 
if  I  done  it?  Who  wouldn't  have — with  a  sick 
kid,  and  not  a  cent,  and  only  one  way  to  get  it — 
only  one  way!" 

The  other  prisoners  were  girls — black  and  white, 
Jew  and  Gentile,  new  to  prison  and  hardened  to  the 
brief  inconvenience  of  arrest.  They  were  all  there 
on  one  of  two  charges.  Some  were  defiant;  some 
were  indifferent.  Aggie  was  frightened. 

337 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

An  officer  stepped  with  Lucius  and  Catherine 
to  the  grating. 

"Agnes  Donahue,"  he  called. 

Aggie  came,  trembling,  to  the  bars. 

Lucius  told  her  who  he  was,  introduced  Cather- 
ine, and  told  why  they  had  come. 

"If  I  plead  with  the  Judge  to  let  you  off,  Aggie, 
what  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"I  ain't  goin'  t'  do  it  again!"  she  sobbed,  lean- 
ing against  the  steel  bars  and  weeping  bitterly. 

"Ain't  going  to  do  what?"   he  echoed. 

"What  I — what  I  done  that  I  got  pinched  fer  ? 
I  didn'  know  ye  could  git  pinched  fer  it." 

"You  mean  you're  not  going  to  solicit  on  the 
streets  again  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"But  will  you  go  back  home  and  try  to  be  a 
good  girl  ?"  he  went  on. 

Aggie  lifted  her  head  defiantly.  "No,  I  won't!" 
she  replied.  "I've  had  enough  of  it  there." 

"Then  why  did  you  telephone  your  poor  old 
father?" 

"My  por  ol' !" 

"That's  all  right!"  he  interrupted  her.  "I 
know  what  you  mean.  He's  done  wrong — but  he 
had  some  cause;  and  there's  good  in  him.  He's 
been  like  a  madman  since  you  went.  You've 
done  wrong,  but  you  had  some  cause,  too — not  so 
much  as  he  had,  though,  because  you  had  youth, 

338 


The  Night  Court 

and  health,  and  hope;  and  he  had  nothing. 
You've  got  good  in  you,  too — yet;  but  you  won't 
have  any  left  soon,  if  you  keep  on  this  way.  If 
you  won't  go  home,  will  you  try  to  live  decent  if 
I  get  you  a  place  to  work?" 

"  I  can  get  myself  a  place  to  work,"  she  replied 
ungraciously.  "  But  what's  the  use  ?  There  ain't 
no  place  where  I  could  get  more'n  five  or  six  dol- 
lars— because  I  ain't  worth  no  more'n  five  or  six 
dollars,  and  I  know  it  as  well  as  any  one.  And 
when  you  try  to  live  on  that,  what  d'ye  get  ?  Star- 
vation— no  clo'es — no  fun — no  place  to  ast  a  fella 
to — no  place  to  enjoy  yourself.  What's  the  use  ?" 

"I  work  for  six  a  week,"  returned  Catherine. 

Aggie  regarded  her  uninterestedly.  "Yer  wel- 
come to  it!"  she  answered  curtly. 

They  left  her  and  went  back  to  the  court-room 
to  see  if  the  Judge  had  come.  While  waiting  for 
him,  they  talked  about  Aggie  to  the  probation 
officer,  a  kindly  intelligent  woman  of  middle-age 
and  wide  experience,  who  investigated  the  cases  of 
girls  and  women  brought  into  court  and  did  what 
she  could  to  further  the  administration  of  justice 
by  reporting  on  the  environment  of  erring  women, 
so  that  the  court  might  judge  with  more  under- 
standing their  deficiencies  and  know  which  of 
them  should  be  committed  to  reformatory  institu- 
tions and  which  released  on  probation  to  have 
another  chance. 

339 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

The  work  was  a  step  in  the  right  direction  and 
undoubtedly  did  great  good.  It  would  have  done 
more  good  if  it  could  have  been  done  more  thor- 
oughly— if  the  apportionment  for  it  had  been  ten 
times  as  great  as  it  was. 

The  probation  officer  was  only  too  sadly  familiar 
with  Aggie's  type  and  Aggie's  attitude  toward  life. 

"There  isn't,  really,  anything  that  can  be  done 
for  her,"  she  said.  "She's  convinced  that  this  is 
the  only  way  for  her  to  have  fun — and  a  willow 
plume — and  there  can't  any  one  do  anything  to 
stop  her.  They're  seldom  sent  up  for  a  first 
offense.  If  she  gets  a  good  scare  now,  it  may  keep 
her  off  the  streets.  But  when  they're  in  that  frame 
of  mind  there  can't  anybody  keep  them  out  of 
the  life.  Cases  like  hers  are  beyond  the  reach  of 
courts,  except  to  punish." 

"And  yet,"  cried  Catherine  hotly,  "who  can 
blame  her?" 

"No  one — who  knows,"  the  older  woman  an- 
swered. 

"  I  was  reading,  the  other  day,"  Catherine  went 
on,  "a  little  book  containing  John  Ruskin's  letters 
to  Mary  Gladstone.  In  the  introduction  to  the 
volume  there  was  an  anecdote  of  the  first  visit  of 
Ruskin  to  Hawarden  Castle.  A  man  had  just 
been  hanged  thereabouts  for  some  dreadful  crime, 
and  Ruskin  said  that  if  laws  were  as  they  should 
be  it  would  have  been  the  best  man  of  the  com- 

340 


The  Night  Court 

munity  who  paid  the  penalty  for  the  worst  man's 
crime.  Gladstone  could  not  agree  to  this.  He 
was  too  practical  a  politician."  She  glanced  mis- 
chievously at  Lucius. 

"We  need  our  best  men — alive,"  he  demurred. 
"But  I  sympathize  with  what  Ruskin  said — in  a 
measure,  at  least." 

The  probation  officer  nodded  approvingly. 
"There  are  many  who  should  answer  when  Aggie's 
case  is  called,"  she  opined.  "She  is  the  victim  of 
many  people's  selfishness  and  neglect.  It  is  not 
fair  that  she  should  bear  the  consequences  alone." 

"I  hate  to  face  Donahue,"  Lucius  confessed. 

He  was  there  when  they  re-entered  the  court- 
room— a  twisted  and  bent  wreck  of  a  man,  heart- 
rendingly  repentant,  anxious. 

"And  ye  can't  do  a  thing?"  he  cried  in  an- 
guish. "My  God!  Not  a  thing?" 

Lucius  tried  to  explain.  "There's  nothing 
there  to  get  hold  of,"  he  said;  "nothing  to  appeal 
to  but  a  love  of  fun.  And  I  don't  know  how  we 
can  promise  her  that.  She  admits  that  she  can't 
hope  to  earn  it  for  herself — except  in  one  way." 

"Fun,"  sobbed  Donahue.  "No,  she  never  had 
much.  An*  she  ain't  got  the  eddication  to  earn 
more'n  what'll  kape  'er  alive.  The  thing  that 
maimed  me,  maimed  her,  too!" 

Lucius  and  Catherine  turned  away,  unable  to 
bear  the  sight  of  his  distress. 

341 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"Creighton  ought  to  be  here,"  Lucius  mur- 
mured. "This  would  be  another  text  for  him  to 
plead  from." 

The  Judge  told  Aggie  she  might  go  free  if  she 
would  go  home  with  her  father.  It  was  only  a 
well-meant  ruse;  if  she  went  home,  perhaps  she 
could  be  persuaded  to  stay.  If  she  didn't  stay, 
the  court  could  not  rearrest  her  for  leaving  nor 
compel  her  to  go  back. 

Aggie  consented — in  a  way  that  inspired  no 
one  with  hopefulness. 

She  and  her  father,  Lucius  and  Catherine,  left 
the  court-room  together  and  walked  east  through 
Tenth  Street. 

Tearfully,  Catherine  pleaded  with  Aggie. 

"If  I  help  you,"  she  entreated,  "won't  you  try 
it  for  a  month — a  fortnight  ?  I'll  ask  my  friends 
to  help — we'll  all  do  all  we  can  for  you.  We  know 
you've  had  a  hard  time — we'll  try  to  make  it 
pleasanter." 

"Who  are  you?"  demanded  Aggie,  "that  you 
should  care  ?" 

"Who  am  I,"  returned  Catherine,  "  that  I  should 
not  care  ?  Many  people  care,  Aggie — everybody 
ought  to  care.  You  can't  live  unto  yourself  alone. 
Nobody  can." 

Yielding  to  much  persuasion,  Aggie  promised 
to  try  the  decent  life  again. 

At   Broadway,   Lucius   and   Catherine   turned 

342 


The  Night  Court 

their  faces  uptown,  and  said  good-by  to  Donahue 
and  his  daughter. 

The  moon,  nearing  its  full,  was  riding  high  over 
the  white  Gothic  spires  of  Grace  Church.  On 
the  corner  where  for  so  many  years  the  Bread 
Line  had  stood  was  the  beautiful  new  outdoor 
pulpit  built  for  the  preaching  of  the  Word  to  the 
masses  who  would  not  come  within  the  church. 

The  stillness  of  lower  Broadway  at  night  lay 
over  everything.  The  St.  Denis  Hotel  was  across 
the  street,  but  it  contributed  no  more  liveliness 
to  the  scene  than  did  Grace  Church  and  its 
rectory. 

A  block  uptown,  where  McCreery's  old  down- 
town store  used  to  be,  Fleischmann's  successor 
now  had  his  Vienna  bakery.  It  was  too  early  yet 
for  the  Bread  Line.  But  an  hour  hence  they 
would  begin  to  come.  At  midnight  there  would 
be  a  long,  sinuous  line  of  them,  stretching  from 
the  side  door  to  Broadway,  and  up  the  west  side 
of  Broadway  for  nearly  or  quite  a  block.  It 
would  be  late  when  the  last  ones  got  their  bread 
and  coffee;  but  they  would  get  it.  Some  persons 
decry  this  charity.  But  the  fame  of  Fleischmann's 
Bread  Line  has  travelled  far — much  farther  than 
the  name  of  the  magnificent  Gothic  pile  under 
whose  shadow  the  hungry  used  to  huddle  and  wait 
for  alms — for  bread  broken  by  a  Jew  and  offered 
to  the  needy  without  a  question.  It  was  a  pity 

343 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

when  the  Bread  Line  moved — even  to  make  way 
for  other  preaching  of  the  Word. 

Lucius  and  Catherine  walked  on,  commenting 
on  these  things  and  revelling  in  the  beauty  of  the 
night. 

At  Union  Square  they  cut  across  diagonally  to 
Fourth  Avenue,  and  followed  its  quiet  reaches 
until  they  came  to  Twenty-fourth  Street.  The 
benches  of  Union  Square  were  well  filled  with 
homeless  men  and  a  few  women — mostly  well  on 
in  years,  and  homeless,  too.  Some  of  them  would 
sit  there  all  night. 

"I  wonder,"  Lucius  mused,  "if  you  and  I  will 
live  to  see  the  millennium  when  these  things  shall 
have  ceased  to  be?" 

"Not  all  of  them — but  some,  perhaps,"  she  an- 
swered. "And  oh!  to  have  a  part  in  bringing  it 
about!  How  can  there  be  any  one  who  does  not 
long  to  work  for  it?" 

"If  only  they  could  know  you!"  he  whispered. 
"You  would  inspire  anyone." 

Lucius  was  perfectly  well  aware  of  the  objec- 
tions with  which  his  avowal  of  interest  in  Catherine 
would  meet.  He  knew  in  about  which  quarters 
the  objection  would  be  active  opposition  and  in 
which  it  would  be  passive  neglect.  He  had  re- 
viewed the  prospect  thoroughly,  and  had  prom- 
ised himself  very  solemnly  that  he  would  not  be 
rash;  that  he  would  take  plenty  of  time  and 

344 


The  Night  Court 

make  sure  he  knew  what  he  was  doing — before 
j  •  & 

doing  it. 

But  here  was  a  woman  who  had  power  to  thrill 
him  as  no  woman  else  had  ever  had — and  Lucius 
was  sufficiently  susceptible  to  feminine  charm. 
The  girls  of  his  own  world  wooed  him  assidu- 
ously; he  was  a  present  prize  and  potentially  a 
magnificent  "risk" — prescient  papas  said  there 
was  practically  no  limit  to  what  Lucius  might 
attain,  politically.  But  Lucius  was  mindful  of 
those  girls'  training.  They  might  be  very  charm- 
ing, gracious  mistresses  of  an  Executive  Mansion 
— if  he  should  be  elected  to  one  some  fifteen  years 
hence.  In  the  meantime,  though,  what  could  he 
hope  for  from  them  ?  They  would  not  approve 
of  Cherry  Hill;  they  would  not  understand  his 
absorbing  interest  there;  they  would  grudge  the 
amount  of  time  he  had  to  give  to  "ways  and 
means"  that  touched  the  world  of  their  concerns 
not  at  all.  There  would  be  a  polite  marriage  which 
was  in  effect  no  marriage  at  all,  and  he  would  go 
his  way  as  he  was  going  now;  only  it  would  be 
harder,  because  there  would  be  a  continual  nag- 
ging of  feminine  opposition. 

Lucius  was  impetuous  in  little  things,  but  he 
was  shrewd  about  major  affairs.  He  loved  wom- 
en, and  often  felt  the  need  of  a  woman's  cheer  and 
the  inspiration  of  her  belief  in  him.  But  he  sur- 
mised— quite  accurately,  no  doubt — just  about 

345 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

how  long  after  marriage  the  gushing  enthusiasm 
of  those  butterfly  girls  for  his  life  as  he  had  mapped 
it  out  would  last. 

Then  Catherine  came.  He  could  scarcely  real- 
ize how  recent  her  coming  had  been,  she  had  filled 
his  thoughts  so  much,  these  ten  days  past. 

Here  was  a  woman  who  would  love  Cherry 
Hill;  who  would  not  only  sympathize  with  his 
interest  in  it,  but  would  continually  be  opening  up 
to  him  new  phases  of  its  life,  its  needs.  She  would 
have  intense,  vital  concern  in  every  step  of  his 
way — down  here.  But  a  part  of  his  way  lay  quite 
elsewhere.  The  strength  of  his  position  depended 
on  the  hold  he  maintained  on  two  important  ele- 
ments: the  popular  vote  and  the  sinews  of  war. 
His  uptown  affiliations  were  as  important  as  his 
downtown  associations.  And  uptown,  how  would 
Catherine  fare  ?  Against  this,  though,  there  were 
two  things  to  be  considered:  one  was  that,  if 
Catherine  could  not  go  with  him  into  those  up- 
town experiences,  she  was  not  the  girl  to  hold  him 
back  from  them  nor  to  grudge  his  going;  and  the 
other  was  that  a  good  part  of  his  relations  with 
uptown  could  safely  be,  from  now  on,  with  men 
exclusively.  He  had  got  past  the  stage  where 
country  houses  and  cotillons  were  useful  to  him. 
The  men  who  held  the  purse-strings  knew  about 
him  now,  and  were  as  likely  to  seek  him  out  as  he 
was  to  seek  them.  They  had  their  eyes  on  him. 

346 


The  Night  Court 

Banquets  were  a  large  factor  in  the  career  that 
Lucius  had  embarked  upon.  Clever — but  not  too 
clever! — after-dinner  speaking  was  one  of  his  big 
assets  as  much  as  clever  platform  speaking  was. 
A  man  who  looked  ahead  along  the  way  Lucius 
meant  to  travel  did  not  see  many  fireside  evenings 
in  prospect;  had  not  much  to  offer  any  woman 
unless  she  were  of  a  kind  to  be  absorbed  in  the 
daily  steps  of  his  progress. 

All  this  Lucius  kept  well  in  mind.  And  yet  as 
he  and  Catherine  sauntered  up  Fourth  Avenue  and, 
with  all  their  lingering,  approached  her  street  with 
what  seemed  to  them  both  an  unseemly  haste,  he 
found  that  he  had  but  one  idea,  and  that  was  to 
get  from  her  some  definite  promise  about  when 
he  might  see  her  again. 

The  first  lesson  in  proof-reading,  she  told  him, 
had  gone  excellently.  Davy  had  made  an  ar- 
rangement with  the  boy  who  struck  off  on  the 
hand-press  proofs  for  the  proof-room  to  run  off 
an  extra  proof  of  certain  galleys.  These  he  would 
save  until  the  copy  from  which  they  were  printed 
was  thrown  aside,  and  then  edited  copy  and  un- 
corrected  proofs  were  to  go  daily  through  Davy 
to  Catherine.  Davy  had  explained  linotype  setting 
to  her,  so  she  might  understand  "the  exigencies  of 
cast  lead,"  he  told  her.  But  some  night  soon  he 
was  going  to  take  her  to  the  composing-room  of 
one  of  the  morning  papers  (Davy's  paper  was 

347 


Children  of  ToMorrow 

published  in  the  afternoon)  and  let  her  see  type 
set  and  read  for  correction,  and  stereotyped  and 
put  on  the  great  rotary  presses.  To  this  expedi- 
tion she  was  looking  forward  eagerly.  Also,  she 
was  to  be  introduced  to  Miss  Todd — next  Sunday 
evening,  if  Miss  Todd  could  come  to  the  Inneses' 
then. 

Lucius  felt  a  pang  of  envy  of  all  the  Inneses 
were  able  to  do  for  Catherine.  And  he  could  do 
nothing! — neither  for  her  present  comfort  nor  for 
her  advancement  in  the  future. 

"With  all  this  in  prospect,  when  am  I  to 
see  you  again?"  he  asked  rather  crossly — like 
a  man  who  feels  that  his  rights  are  being  in- 
vaded. 

Catherine's  mouth  trembled.  "When?"  As 
if  there  could  be  anything  in  all  the  world  that 
could  keep  her  elsewhere  if  she  knew  he  wanted 
her!  She  was  afraid  to  answer  lest  this  that  was 
in  her  mind  get  into  her  voice  also  and  betray 
her.  And  she,  too,  had  done  her  thinking!  If 
Lucius  McCurdy  ever  spoke  word  of  love  to  her, 
it  should  not  be  through  pity  because  he  realized 
that  she  loved  him. 

Her  silence  nettled  Lucius. 

"Catherine!"  he  cried,  "I  want  you!  I  need 
you!  I  want  you  for  my  own!" 

Catherine  put  her  hand  out  as  if  to  steady  her- 
self, and  gripped  his  arm. 

348 


The  Night  Court 

"Not — ?"  She  lifted  her  eyes  and  looked  into 
his. 

He  read  her  anguished  questioning — and  it  hurt. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  think  you'd 
misunderstand." 

"Forgive  me,"  she  entreated.  "I — it  seemed 
too  wonderful." 

In  the  dark  hallway  of  her  tenement,  she  let 
him  hold  her  for  an  instant  in  his  arms.  Her 
heart  was  beating  so  wildly  he  could  feel  it  against 
his  own. 

"You  flutter  like  a  frightened  bird,"  he  whis- 
pered; "but  you've  come  home — my  Catherine." 

A  door  in  the  upper  hall  opened  and  steps 
were  heard  approaching  the  stairs. 

Catherine  lifted  her  face  to  his  for  one  more 
kiss,  then  sped  away  from  him — up  to  her  little 
room  whose  walls  seemed  too  frail  to-night  to 
contain  this  great  flood  of  happiness  she  was 
bringing  with  her. 

Lucius  did  not  fall  asleep  until  well  on  toward 
dawn.  At  seven  o'clock  he  was  awakened  by  the 
telephone  bell. 

Imprecating  the  disturber,  he  took  down  the 
receiver. 

"Who  is  it?"  some  one  asked. 

"Catherine!"  he  cried. 

349 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"Yes.  I  am  crazy,  Lucius — mad.  Sonia  did 
not  come  home.  I  have  been  up  all  night — and 
she  hasn't  come.'* 

"I'll  be  with  you  in  half  an  hour,"  he  answered. 
"Try  not  to  worry,  dearest.  Thank  God,  I've 
got  some  power  in  this  town." 


35° 


CHAPTER  XXII 
"ANY  FOOL  CAN  DESTROY" 

EMSTEAD  was  a  hard  man  to  catch.  For  one 
thing,  he  did  a  deal  of  flying  about  the 
country,  getting  in  touch  with  national  interests; 
and  for  another  thing,  when  he  was  in  town,  his 
office  was  continually  under  siege  by  a  multitude 
of  persons  who  wanted  to  get  his  ear. 

He  had  been  to  Seattle  to  see  some  men  who 
knew  things  about  the  Alaska  frauds  that  he  could 
not  find  out  in  the  East.  He  left  New  York  the 
afternoon  after  his  talk  with  Dudley  Prichard 
about  the  labor  series.  At  8.30  the  next  morning 
Emstead  was  in  Chicago,  where  he  saw  a  dozen 
persons  before  leaving,  at  6.30,  for  St.  Paul.  In 
St.  Paul  he  ferreted  around  and  satisfied  himself 
on  certain  points  concerning  Great  Northern  and 
the  freight  tariffs  on  wheat.  Sunday  he  was  in 
Seattle.  Tuesday  night  he  left  there  for  'Frisco. 
Thursday  and  Friday  he  spent  in  'Frisco,  talking 
over  the  city's  fight  to  free  itself  from  gang  rule; 
Tuesday  he  was  back  in  Chicago.  There  he  found 
a  night  message  from  Ansel  Rodman — "Wire  on 

351 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

what  train  you're  leaving.  I'm  coming  up  road 
to  meet  you.  Business  conference." 

Emstead  replied  that  he  was  going  to  Pittsburg 
on  the  eigh teen-hour  limited;  would  leave  there 
Wednesday  night.  This  would  bring  him  into 
New  York  early  on  Thursday  morning — so  early 
that  Rodman,  getting  on  at  Philadelphia,  could 
not  hope  to  find  Emstead  awake.  So  Rodman 
went  to  Pittsburg;  and  in  the  drawing-room  of 
the  sleeper  he  and  Emstead  sat  up  all  the  way  to 
Harrisburg  talking. 

Emstead's  office  was  a  busy  place  on  Thursday. 
Every  one  who  had  been  waiting  two  weeks  and  a 
half  to  see  him  wanted  to  get  to  him  at  once. 

Emstead  believed  in  the  good-will  of  as  many 
people  as  he  could  conciliate  without  unworthy 
compromise;  so  he  didn't  keep  an  office  boy.  No 
flippant  youth  or  disinterested  girl  received  callers 
at  the  offices  of  Emstead's  Magazine.  It  was 
strictly  against  instructions  that  any  one  who  came 
there  should  be  made  to  feel  unimportant  to  the 
magazine.  Magazines  need  all  the  good-will  they 
can  get  and  keep.  The  competition  among  them 
is  keen.  There  are  never  enough  writers  or  ar- 
tists of  tjie  first  class  to  go  'round  among  the  edi- 
tors who  must  have  first-class  stuff.  There  is 
never  any  way  of  telling  from  what  futile-seeming 
caller  one  may  get  the  suggestion  for  a  big  "fea- 
ture." Emstead  had  once  listened  patiently  to  a 

352 


"Any  Fool  Can  Destroy " 

woman  who  wanted  to  write  for  him  a  series  of 
articles  on  "Eminent  Women  of  Modern  Times." 
Somewhere  in  her  maunderings  he  caught  some- 
thing that  gave  him  an  idea  for  one  of  the  most 
sensationally  successful  features  his  magazine  had 
ever  had.  It  was  a  theory  of  his  that  writers,  as 
they  wax  proficient  in  the  technique  of  their  craft, 
have  a  tendency  to  seek  surroundings  that  are 
pleasant  rather  than  purposeful;  that  is,  as  they 
get  the  better  able  to  say  things,  they  incline  to 
have  fewer  things  to  say.  He  believed  that  it  is  a 
large  part  of  an  editor's  business  to  associate  with 
people  and  know  what's  in  the  minds  of  many 
men;  then,  from  among  the  little  group  of  per- 
sons who  know  how  to  write,  to  choose  the  likeli- 
est one  for  the  handling  of  any  particular  theme. 
"I  have,"  Emstead  would  say  illustratively,  "an 
idea  that  the  public — or  a  large  part  of  it — would 
welcome  some  articles  on  the  preparations  Ger- 
many is  indubitably  making  for  war.  I  have  some 
startling  intimations,  from  reliable  sources,  about 
those  preparations  and  the  imminence  of  that  war. 
In  my  mind,  I  rapidly  run  over  the  list  of  men 
who  could  conceivably  do  anything  with  such  a 
commission  as  I  purpose  giving.  When  I  have 
concluded  which  of  them  is  likeliest,  I  tell  some 
one  about  the  office  to  locate  him  for  me  and  get 
him  on  the  'phone.  'What  have  you  got  to  do 
this  afternoon  ?'  I  ask  him.  Well,  he  was  going  to 

353 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

play  squash — probably.  (I  never  knew  anything 
like  the  propensity  of  these  successful  knights  of 
the  pen  for  playing  squash.  What  is  squash,  any- 
way ?)  But  he  will  come  to  see  me  if  I  want  him 
to.  He  comes.  I  lay  before  him  the  outline  of 
the  German  scheme.  In  half  an  hour  he's  as 
crazy  as  a  loon,  and  can't  wait  for  the  first  Ger- 
man ship  to  sail.  He'll  do  great  work.  But  if  I 
hadn't  dug  up  the  idea,  he  would  have  gone  on 
playing  squash  till  he  ran  out  of  money.  That's 
editing  " 

In  consequence  of  his  belief  in  the  possible  value 
to  his  magazine  of  any  one  who  might  come 
along,  Emstead  kept  in  his  reception-room  a  dig- 
nified messenger,  white-haired  and  courtly,  who 
knew  "Who's  Who"  by  heart  and  everybody  in  it 
by  sight;  and  who  had  a  pride  in  following  those 
instructions  which  bade  him  make  even  messenger 
boys  glad  to  come  to  the  Emstead  offices  with  an 
electro  to  be  used  in  advertising. 

This  man  had  a  busy  day  on  Thursday  after 
Mr.  Emstead's  absence  of  more  than  two  weeks. 
Obviously,  all  these  people  could  not  see  Mr. 
Emstead  on  a  single  day,  even  if  the  Chief  had  not 
that  great  accumulation  of  mail  and  of  office  mat- 
ters to  attend  to.  Yet  Allison  handled  the  claims 
with  supreme  diplomacy,  making  firm  but  flatter- 
ingly regretful  denials  to  some,  temporizing  with 
others,  and  so  on. 

354 


"Any  Fool  Can  Destroy" 

When  Dudley  Prichard  came  in,  Allison  told 
him  that  he  knew  Mr.  Emstead  was  hoping  to  see 
him,  but  that  unfortunately,  at  that  moment, 
there  was  a  French  scientist  in  Mr.  Emstead's 
office.  If  Mr.  Prichard  would  be  good  enough  to 
wait,  he  would  find  some  gentlemen  whom  he  knew 
in  the  reception-room. 

Prichard  nodded  agreeably  and  passed  into 
the  inner  room,  hung  with  paintings  by  notable 
American  illustrators  and  with  framed  frag- 
ments of  manuscript  by  celebrated  American  wri- 
ters. The  furniture  of  this  room  was  mahog- 
any, in  a  choice  Chippendale  design.  The  floor 
was  hard-wood,  highly  polished,  and  on  it  was 
a  handsome  Oriental  rug.  The  library  table  con- 
tained recent  copies  of  Emstead' 's  and  some  of  the 
New  York  morning  papers.  A  handsome  "art 
glass"  dome  hung  above  it,  and  cast  a  softened 
light.  A  grandfather  clock  in  one  corner  ticked 
sonorously. 

Prichard  found  here  two  men  he  knew:  Sam 
Hamilton  and  Will  Crowninshield.  Like  himself, 
they  had  both  been  newspaper  men.  Hamilton 
was  truly  famous — that  seemed  hardly  too  big  a 
word — as  a  war  correspondent;  considering  his 
youth — he  was  just  forty — and  these  piping  times 
of  peace,  he  had  seen  no  inconsiderable  amount  of 
warfare  and  of  the  earth's  surface.  He  was  a 
vastly  entertaining  chap;  there  was  none  in  New 

355 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

York  who  could  spin  a  prettier  yarn  about  a 
greater  variety  of  experiences. 

Will  Crowninshield  was  press  agent  to  a  multi- 
millionaire and  to  the  trust  with  which  this  mil- 
lionaire was  most  prominently  identified. 

"Hello,  Will!"  Dudley  greeted  him.  "What's 
new  ?  Getting  ready  for  a  new  ten-million-dollar 
conservation  fund  ?" 

Crowninshield  took  the  jibes  of  his  confreres 
with  smiling  equanimity.  He  felt  that  he  could 
afford  to.  He  wasn't  getting  any  glory  out  of  his 
job,  but  he  was  getting  a  fairly  excellent  "where- 
withal," and  he  was  also  getting  valuable  tips 
about  investing  what  he  didn't  spend.  He  meant 
to  work  for  glory  by  and  by. 

He  was  the  first  of  the  three  in  line  to  see  Em- 
stead.  After  he  had  gone,  Prichard  and  Hamil- 
ton discussed  his  job  with  humorous  appreciation. 

"Poor  old  Will!"  mused  Dudley,  reminiscently. 
"He  has  his  ups  and  downs,  like  the  elevator  boy. 
I  remember  the  time  his  boss  was  getting  ready  to 
announce  that  enormous  donation  he  made  to  en- 
dow a  foundation  for  something  or  other.  Will 
selected  the  time  for  the  announcement  with  in- 
finite care — picked  out  a  dull  season  in  the  news- 
paper world  —  just  after  Christmas  —  when  the 
most  exciting  thing  in  the  papers  was  the  adver- 
tising of  pre-inventory  clearance  sales.  He  had  it 
doped  out  that  his  story  was  good  for  at  least  two 

356 


"Any  Fool  Can  Destroy" 

columns  on  the  front  page  of  every  daily  in  the 
land.  And  he  had  the  stuff  landed  with  the  As- 
sociated Press,  when  along  comes  Messina  with 
a  pretty  little  earthquake — and  puts  the  donation 
story  into  a  stickful  of  type  somewhere  in  the 
mazes  of  page  three.  Talk  about  the  fortunes  of 
war!" 

Hamilton  laughed.  "I'll  bet  Will's  Crcesus 
blamed  him  for  the  earthquake!"  he  said.  "I 
wonder  if  Will  will  ever  have  the  nerve  to  write 
his  memoirs.  Gee!  What  a  chance!  But  I 
don't  think  he's  got  the  humor  for  it.  Seever  and 
I  were  up  to  the  Inneses'  Sunday  night " — Prichard 
winced,  but  Hamilton  did  not  notice  it — "and 
Os  was  telling  about  his  paper.  He  says  that 
practically  every  millionaire  in  the  country  has 
some  kind  of  protection  there — except  two — 
brothers.  It's  'hands  off*  for  everybody  else. 
But  if  you  come  down  to  the  office  with  a  spleen 
that  you  have  just  got  to  vent  on  some  plutocrat, 
you  may  vent  it  on  either  of  these  brothers.  He 
says  they  have  no  end  of  fun  about  it  in  the  office. 
Davy  told  us  about  a  side-show  he  saw  at  Coney 
Island  this  summer.  There  were  two  wire  cages. 
In  each  was  a  water-tank  perhaps  eight  feet  deep. 
About  three  feet  above  each  tank  was  a  bar  of 
wood  on  which  a  coal-black,  grinning  nigger  was 
perched.  One  end  of  the  bar  stuck  out  a  foot  be- 
yond the  cage,  at  the  side,  and  on  it  was  hung  a 

357 


Children  of  ToMorrow 

black  Derby  hat.  For  five  cents  you  could  take 
six  shots  at  the  hat,  with  tennis  balls.  If  you 
hit  the  hat,  the  bar  collapsed  over  the  middle  of 
the  tank  and  dropped  the  darky  in.  After  each 
ducking  he  would  reappear,  cheerful  and  drip- 
ping, reset  his  perch,  and  climb  back  on  it,  to 
await  another  onslaught.  Davy  said  the  inspira- 
tion of  it  must  have  been  what  he  calls  'the  Goat 
Brothers/  " 

Sam's  errand  with  the  Chief  was  soon  de- 
spatched and  it  was  Prichard's  turn.  He  found 
Emstead  in  a  veritable  sea  of  newspaper  exchanges 
and  heaped-up  correspondence. 

"Well,Prichard,"  Emstead  greeted  him,"how're 
you  getting  on  ?" 

"I  don't  know  how  I'm  getting  'on,'  "  Prichard 
answered,  "but  I'm  getting  'in'  all  right  enough.'* 

He  laid  his  disclosures  before  Emstead. 

"How  do  you  know  it  ?"  Emstead  demanded  in 
his  quick  searching  way. 

"Well,  first  of  all,  a  man  to  whom  I  happened 
to  talk  about  my  undertaking  told  me  he  had 
heard  it  hinted.  Then,  among  the  mass  of  clip- 
pings and  correspondence  Davy  let  me  look  over, 
I  occasionally  found  a  word  of  comment  written 
in  a  feminine  hand — as  if  some  one  had  read  these 
things  for  Lyman  Innes  and  passed  them  on  to 
him.  The  man  who  started  me  on  this  hunt  said 
it  was  whispered  at  the  time  of  Innes's  death  that 

358 


"Any  Fool  Can  Destroy" 

there  had  been  a  Delilah  game — that  Bardeen's 
wife  had  been  used  by  Bardeen's  employers  to 
get  grounds  for  impeachment.  The  feminine  an- 
notations promised  to  lead  to  something.  Natu- 
rally, I  tried  to  find  the  man  who  had  been  Gov- 
ernor Innes's  private  secretary — Clarence  Perkins 
was  his  name." 

"You  found  him?" 

"Oh,  easily.  But  he  wouldn't  talk.  I  told 
him  what  I  had  heard  and  asked  him  if  he  was 
willing  to  say  that  there  was  absolutely  no  truth 
in  it.  He  said  he  was  perfectly  willing  to  say  this 
— that  nothing  could  be  more  absurd. 

"  I  said :  '  Do  you  deny  that  there  was  a  woman 
who  read  letters  and  newspapers  for  the  Governor 
and  marked  them  for  him  ?' 

"He  said:  'I  do.' 

"  'Then  how,'  I  asked  him,  'do  you  explain 
these?'  and  I  showed  him  some  that  I  had  with 
me. 

"  *  There  was  a  woman  employed  by  me  to  do 
that  work — during  the  pressure  of  correspondence 
entailed  by  the  strike,'  he  answered.  '  She  was 
my  employee — I  hired  her — to  help  me/ 

"  'Do  you  deny  that  this  woman  was  the  wife 
of  Bardeen,  the  assassin?'  I  persisted. 

"  'I— I  do  not  deny  it,'  he  faltered.  'It  was  a 
coincidence;  that  was  all.  I  hired  her  without 
the  Governor's  seeing  her.  I  gave  her  the  work 

359 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

to  do.  The  very  next  day  she  came  back  and 
resigned — saying  her  husband  objected  to  her 
doing  any  work  for  Governor  Innes.  She  had  not 
seen  the  Governor,  nor  had  he  seen  her/ 

"  'And  you  say,'  I  went  on,  'that  she  worked 
for  you  only  one  day?' 

"  'I  gave  her  the  letters  one  morning/  he  re- 
plied, 'and  she  brought  them  back  the  next, 
and  resigned/ 

"  'That  was  when  ?'  I  asked. 
"  'That  was  in  July,  I  think/  he  said,  'early 
in  July/ 

"  'Yet  there  are  annotations  in  the  same  hand/ 
I  reminded  him,  'on  letters  and  papers  dated  as 
late  as  the  end  of  August/ 

"He  flushed.  He  could  see  that  he  was  caught. 
'I  succeeded  in  getting  her  to  reconsider/  he  ad- 
mitted, 'and  she  did  some  work  for  me  under 
promise  of  secrecy/ 

"'And  the  Governor  didn't  know  about  it?* 
I  went  on. 

"  '  I  probably  told  him — but  he  was  much  pre- 
occupied that  summer/  Perkins  said. 

"  'What  became  of  this  Mrs.  Bardeen?'  I  in- 
quired. 

'I  haven't  the  remotest  idea/  he  answered. 

"He  said  he  had  heard  that  she  went  to  South 
America.  I  inquired  around  the  Capital,  but 
nobody  knew.  She  had  a  brother  living  there  at 

360 


"Any  Fool  Can  Destroy" 

the  time,  but  he  has  since  moved  away  and  I 
couldn't  get  trace  of  him.  She  was  never  seen 
after  the  murder.  She  and  her  little  girl — nine 
years  old — got  away  under  complete  cover — 
spirited  away  by  State  officials,  I  suppose.  It  was 
pretty  slick  business — the  way  the  whole  thing 
was  handled." 

"  But  you  haven't  any  proof,"  Emstead  declared. 
"You  can't  print  suspicions  and  allegations — not 
in  Emstead 's  Magazine,  at  least.  Better  drop  all 
that." 

"And  go  on  perpetuating  the  lie  that  Innes  died 
a  martyr?" 

"You  don't  know  that  it  is  a  lie." 

"But  I  have  strong  reason  to  suppose  that 
it  is." 

"It  may  be  true,"  Emstead  answered,  "and 
yet  not  be  THE  truth." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  ignore  it?" 

"I  do." 

"I  thought  you  wanted  me  to  uncover  the 
truth." 

"I  do.  But  I  expect  you  to  exercise  some  judg- 
ment about  it.  Lyman  Innes  put  up  a  big,  strong 
fight.  You  have  every  evidence  to  prove  that — 
none  to  disprove  it.  Suppose  it  actually  hap- 
pened that  his  death  was  not  martyrdom  but  retri- 
bution :  what  good  are  you  going  to  do  to  any  one 
alive  by  disclosing  the  fact?  What  harm  may 

361 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

you  not  do — not  only  to  the  memory  of  the  dead 
and  to  the  feelings  of  the  living,  but  to  the  faith  of 
thousands  who  need  faith  in  a  fellow-man  more 
than  they  need  any  other  one  thing." 

"Is  this  a  hierarchy?'*  sneered  Prichard — "or 
a  republic  ?  Are  we  priests,  presuming  to  decide 
what  it  is  expedient  for  people  to  know  ?  Or  are 
we  men  who  believe  in  other  men  and  in  their  right 
to  know  what  we  know?" 

"This  is  a  free  country,"  Emstead  replied,  "and 
there  is  at  least  this  liberty  of  the  press:  if  you  look 
long  enough  you  can  almost  always  find  some  editor 
who  will  print  anything  you  want  to  say.  But 
you  can't  print  vague  allegations  against  any  man 
in  EmsteacTs  Magazine — if  I  know  it.  Now,  I 
don't  mind  telling  you  that  I  had  heard  all  these 
rumors  long  ago.  I  knew  what  I  thought  about 
them.  I  knew  that  the  time  was  getting  ripe  for 
a  big  series  of  articles  on  the  history  of  labor  agi- 
tation in  this  country.  I  knew  that  one  of  the 
first  things  an  investigator  would  be  likely  to  fall 
foul  of  would  be  this  Innes  story.  That's  why  I 
offered  the  job  to  Dave  Innes  first.  I  knew  he 
had  the  qualifications  to  write  it — I  knew  his  name 
would  give  it  weight.  I  did  not  know  whether  he 
had  ever  heard  anything  alleged  against  his  fa- 
ther or  not.  But  I  thought  that  it  would  be  better 
for  him  to  discover  whatever  allegation  there  was 
and  keep  it  to  himself,  than  for  some  one  else  to 

362 


"Any  Fool  Can  Destroy" 

discover  it  and  blat  it  out.  When  he  wouldn't 
undertake  the  series  I  was  pretty  sure  it  was  be- 
cause he  had  heard  something  of  this  yarn.  So 
then  I  gave  it  to  you,  because  I  thought  you  had 
some  reason  to  be  loyal  to  the  Innes  name." 

"I  see,"  muttered  Prichard;  "you  gave  the  job 
to  me,  not  because  you  thought  I  would  be  a  fear- 
less investigator,  but  because  you  thought  my 
notions  of  suppression  would  coincide  with  yours. 
I  flattered  myself —  Oh,  well!  I  was  wrong,  I 
see." 

"Yes,"  humored  Emstead,  "you  were  wrong. 
Now,  get  to  work,  sonny,  and  ferret  out  any  crook- 
edness that  publicity  may  be  good  for — to  keep 
history  from  repeating  itself.  But  keep  your 
work  constructive.  Any  fool  can  destroy." 

"Then  history  isn't  the  statement  of  facts?" 
urged  Prichard,  rising  to  go. 

Emstead  laughed,  as  at  a  schoolboy's  question. 

"Not  at  all!"  he  declared.  "Not  at  all.  His- 
tory is  the  shrewd  interpretation  of  many  men's 
testimony — many  men,  each  of  whom  may  or 
may  not  believe  his  testimony  to  embody  the 
facts.  An  investigator  is  not  necessarily  an  his- 
torian— he  may  be  a  mere  collator  of  evidence.  It 
is  the  ability  to  sift  evidence,  and  to  read  into 
the  residue  out  of  a  rich  understanding,  that  makes 
a  historian.  Go  to,  my  boy,  and  think  about  it!" 


363 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A    WEDDING 

P RICHARD  went  direct  from  Emstead's  office 
down  to  see  Davy.  It  was  almost  noon,  and 
there  was  an  excellent  chance  that  Davy  would 
soon  be  coming  up  to  The  Players  to  lunch.  But 
Dudley  didn't  want  to  meet  Davy  at  the  club. 
He  had,  on  Davy's  account,  been  avoiding  the 
club  these  ten  days  past.  He  had  not  seen  Davy 
since  they  parted  so  unceremoniously  at  Four- 
teenth Street  and  Irving  Place;  and  he  did  not 
want  their  next  meeting  to  occur  in  the  presence  of 
others. 

It  was  just  twelve  when  he  reached  the  City 
Hall,  and  as  he  was  crossing  in  front  of  it  he  saw 
Johnny  Innes  handing  a  girl  into  a  taxi.  The 
girl  was  Emily  Bristow. 

"I  wonder  what  they're  doing  here,"  Dudley 
mused,  looking  after  the  cab  as  it  rolled  away. 
"By  Jove!  I  believe  they  were  getting  a  mar- 
riage license." 

He  went  in  to  see.  His  investigations  brought 
him  down  here  frequently,  and  he  had  acquaint- 
ances in  every  office.  It  was  true — Johnny  and 

364 


A  Wedding 

Emily  had  taken  out  a  license  to  wed.  What  was 
more,  they  had  just  been  married  in  the  Mayor's 
office. 

Evidently  none  of  their  kindred  was  in  their 
confidence.  Dudley  wondered  what  it  all  meant. 

He  crossed  the  square  to  the  tall  building  where 
Davy's  paper  had  its  offices. 

Mr.  Innes  was  not  in,  the  boy  said.  He  had 
gone  out  half  an  hour  ago  with  Mr.  Rodman  and 
another  gentleman. 

Dudley  asked  if  he  might  leave  a  note  for  Mr. 
Innes,  and  was  directed  to  Davy's  little  cubby-hole 
to  write  it. 

On  top  of  Davy's  desk  was  an  envelope  ad- 
dressed to  him  in  a  handwriting  that  made  Dud- 
ley's senses  reel.  In  all  his  life  he  had  never 
wanted  to  do  anything  so  much  as  he  wanted  to 
break  that  seal  and  learn  who  wrote  that  letter. 
Fearful  to  trust  himself,  he  had  to  flee  without 
taking  time  to  write  any  note  to  Davy. 

Dudley  breathed  freely  when  he  found  himself 
outside.  Talk  about  temptation!  He  had  never 
known  before  what  it  really  meant. 

He  recrossed  City  Hall  Park,  threading  his  way 
through  the  noon-time  crowds.  Venders  of  "hot 
dog"  were  doing  a  thriving  business  from  their 
push-carts;  fruit  was  melting  from  the  laden 
stands;  purveyors  of  dust-swept  sweets — choco- 
lates and  gum-drops — were  making  a  multitude  of 

365 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

penny  sales.  To  and  fro  across  the  park  hungry 
folk  of  more  prosperous  grades  were  hurrying  on 
luncheon  bent.  Staring  white  bulletins  of  recent 
events  were  out  in  front  of  all  the  newspaper 
offices.  Shrill  street  cries  pierced  the  air  above 
the  roar  of  Broadway  traffic. 

Prichard  noted  these  familiar  things  not  at  all. 
He  got  on  a  north-bound  Broadway  car  and  rode 
to  Fourth  Street.  By  that  time  his  abstraction 
seemed  to  have  dissolved  sufficiently  to  permit  him 
a  controlling  purpose.  He  walked  west  rapidly 
till  he  reached  the  Inneses'  apartment-house. 
And  he  concealed  from  Nora  the  trepidation  with 
which  he  asked  for  Miss  Rose. 

Rose  was  about  to  sit  down  to  her  solitary  lun- 
cheon. She  heard  his  voice  at  the  door,  and  went 
hurriedly  into  the  living-room  to  receive  him. 

"It's  Mr.  Prichard,"  announced  Nora,  usher- 
ing him  in. 

She  retired  by  way  of  the  dining-room,  carrying 
thence  with  her  the  little  casserole  of  hot  stew  she 
had  just  served  for  Miss  Rose's  luncheon. 

Rose  and  Dudley  confronted  each  other  in  deep 
embarrassment. 

"Am  I  unwelcome?"  he  asked  humbly. 

Rose  shook  her  head — not  in  eager  denial  but  as 
if  in  doubt. 

"Would  you  rather  I  went  away — without  try- 
ing to  explain  ?" 

366 


A  Wedding 

There  he  touched  her  in  a  sensitive  place — the 
love  of  justice. 

"No,"  she  answered, but  speaking  with  difficulty. 
"No — of  course  not!  Won't  you  sit  down  ?" 

Dudley  winced  at  the  formality  of  the  invitation, 
but  he  accepted  it.  Rose  faced  him,  her  hands 
tight-locked  in  her  lap — waiting.  She  was  not 
going  to  make  it  easy  for  him;  he  had  miscalcu- 
lated her  tender  yieldingness. 

"Rose,"  he  began,  "I — that  was  all  a  mistake 
— all  that  occurred  on  my  last  visit.  I  see  it  now. 
I  have  reconsidered.  I  ask  you  to  forgive  me — 
and  to  forget." 

She  stared  at  him  wonderingly.  "  I  don't  think 
I — understand,"  she  said. 

He  got  up  and  went  over  to  her,  and  bending 
down  laid  an  arm  across  the  back  of  her  chair. 

"I  can't  talk  to  you  like  this,"  he  pleaded. 
"Don't  sit  in  front  of  me  and  listen  like  a  judge. 
Sit  beside  me,  dear,  and  listen  like — like  the  angel 
you  are!  Rose — please!" 

She  went  over  to  the  davenport,  and  he  came 
and  sat  beside  her  and  held  her  hand  while  he 
talked. 

"I  was  mad — to  do  what  I  did,"  he  went  on. 
"Can't  you  forget  it,  Rose— dear?  I  don't  know 
how  I  could  have  thought  of  doing  such  a  thing. 
When  I  realized  what  it  meant— how  you  were 
hurt  by  it — I  gave  it  up." 

367 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"Gave  up  the  series?" 

"No — gave  up  writing  anything  different  than 
has  always  been  written  about — that  one  episode. 
I  have  just  had  a  talk  with  Emstead.  He  knew 
about  that — that  other  version — but  he  was  willing 
to  have  me  ignore  it." 

"Did  he  know  why  you  wish  to  ignore  it?" 

"You  mean ?" 

"Did  he  know  that  you  are  anxious  to  ignore  it 
for  our  sakes — for  my  sake  ?" 

"I  think  he  knows  that  I  am  in  love  with  you — 
he  intimated  as  much." 

"Did  he — was  he  much  disappointed  in  you?" 

"For  being  in  love  with  you  ?" 

She  ignored  the  raillery.  "No,  for  being  willing 
to — manipulate  the  facts,  I  suppose  you'd  call  it." 

"Not  at  all — or,  that  is  to  say,  not  after  I  had 
talked  with  him  about  it." 

"He  doesn't  think  it  is  going  to  hurt  your  repu- 
tation to — to  write  about  it  in  the  usual  way  ?" 

"No." 

"I'm  glad,"  she  said,  looking  steadily  ahead  of 
her,  an  inscrutable  expression  in  her  face,  "that 
things  have  worked  out  so  satisfactorily  for  you — 
without  any  sacrifice  on  your  part." 

Dudley  was  not  at  all  sure  what  she  meant. 
He  thought  for  a  moment  before  he  replied.  It 
couldn't  be  a  sarcasm,  of  course;  Rose  was  never 
sarcastic. 

368 


A  Wedding 

"Yes,"  he  declared;  "it  all  came  out  right. 
And  I'm  glad,  too — so  glad!" 

She  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window  and  stood 
looking  out.  An  organ-grinder  with  a  monkey  was 
playing  in  the  square. 

He  looked  after  her;  but  somehow  he  dared  not 
follow.  What  was  the  matter  with  Rose?  She 
wasn't  like  herself  at  all! 

"I've  seen  people,"  he  remarked,  "act  gladder 
than  you  do." 

She  did  not  reply. 

"Are  you  going  to  hold  it  over  me?"  he  went 
on. 

"Hold  what  over  you  ?" 

"That  I  was  temporarily  in  error  about — what 
I  ought  to  do." 

She  faced  him,  her  eyes  flashing. 

"  You  know  how  little  likely  I  am  to  do  anything 
of  the  sort,"  she  reminded  him. 

"Then  what  is  it,  Rose  ?  You  haven't  forgiven 
me  for  something.  What  is  it?" 

She  turned  away  from  him  again  and  continued 
her  gazing  into  the  square. 

He  came  and  stood  beside  her,  and  would  have 
drawn  her  to  him,  but  she  denied  him  by  the  least 
little  gesture. 

He  dropped  into  a  chair  that  stood  near  the 
window,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Rose  maintained  her  distance  for  a  moment; 

369 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

then  she  laid  a  hand  on  his  bowed  shoulder  and 
murmured:  "Dudley — don't!" 

He  gave  no  sign  that  he  had  heard. 

Then,  to  his  intense  surprise,  she  withdrew  her 
hand  and  walked  away. 

He  had  to  lift  his  face  to  see  where  she  had  gone. 
"Is  this  the  end  ?"  he  whispered  hoarsely. 

"The  end  of  what?" 

"Of  our  relations,  of  your  love  for  me." 

She  gathered  all  her  courage. 

"Dudley,"  she  began,  standing  over  him  and 
holding  him  with  her  two  hands  on  his  shoulders 
so  he  must  look  at  her  and  could  not  drop  his 
head  again,  "  I  hoped  I  shouldn't  have  to  say  this. 
But  perhaps  it  was  cowardly  to  try  to  make  you 
infer  it.  I've  had  a  shock — I  have  suffered.  I 
don't  blame  you  a  bit  for  anything  you  have  done 
— only — I  don't  feel  the  same  toward  you  as  I 
used  to  feel.  I  can't  help  this.  I've  tried  to — 
and  I  can't.  In  a  shock,  I  guess  things  come 
crashing  down — sometimes — that  no  human  power 
can  set  up  again.  It's  like  that.  Perhaps  you 
think  it  hasn't  hurt  me!  But  I  tell  you,  I'd  rather 
lose  anything  in  all  the  world  than  lose — belief!" 

"And  you've  lost  belief  in  me  ?" 

She  nodded.  Her  eyes  were  brimming,  and  she 
lifted  a  hand  from  his  shoulder^to  brush  the  tears 
away. 

"Why,  Rose?     Why?" 

37° 


A  Wedding 

"You  don't  understand?" 

"No." 

'That's  it!  It's  because  you  can't  understand 
— and  I  realize  now  that  you  can't,  and  probably 
never  will.  You  don't  know  what  love  means, 
Dudley." 

"I  don't?"  he  cried.  "That  shows  how  little 
you  know  me!  I  tell  you  I've  been  pretty  nearly 
crazed  by  this  thing.  I  haven't  slept.  I've  hardly 
eaten.  I  haven't  been  near  the  club.  I  couldn't 
face  anybody " 

"I  shouldn't  think  any  series  of  articles  that 
ever  was  conceived  was  worth  all  that!" 

"  Rose !  Is  it  possible — from  you  ?  Do  you 
think  it  was  a  matter  of  articles — of  pay — of  the 
little  talk  they  create?  It  was  principle,  Rose! 
It  was  this:  'You  have  given  yourself,  Dudley 
Prichard,  to  the  career  of  an  investigator  and  re- 
corder of  facts — facts  of  public  interest — those 
things  which  the  public  for  its  own  good  and  guid- 
ance ought  to  know,  and  which  have  been  kept 
from  it  by  those  who  thrive  on  the  public's  igno- 
rance. In  the  old  days  it  was  the  priests — the  hi- 
erarchy— who  determined  what  the  people  ought  to 
know;  and  precious  little  knowledge  they  allowed 
them !  Nowadays  it  is  an  oligarchy  of  greed  that 
controls  truth,  and  feeds  out  to  the  people  such 
sifted  and  altered  bits  of  truth  as  are  least  likely  to 
make  them  rise  up  and  destroy  the  oligarchy's  rule. 

371 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

You  have  given  yourself  to  oppose  this — as  Martin 
Luther  opposed  it  and  as  Galileo  opposed  it,  and 
as  men  in  every  age  have  opposed  the  suppression 
of  truth.  Your  worth  to  your  generation — to  all 
succeeding  generations — lies  in  your  steadfastness 
to  what  you  believe  to  be  the  truth.  The  disciples 
of  evil  like  to  believe  that  every  man  has  his  price, 
or,  if  not  that,  his  limit,  beyond  which  he  will  not 
go  for  any  cause.  It  is  not  so!  The  world's 
progress — every  painful  step  of  it — has  been  forced 
by  men  who  knew  no  limit  to  what  they  were  will- 
ing to  suffer  for  the  right.'  This  was  the  way  I 
argued,  Rose!  I  told  myself  that  if  I  could  be 
deflected  from  what  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  truth, 
by  any  consideration  whatsoever — even  you! — I 
should  be  a  poor  apostle.  That  was  where  the 
struggle  lay!" 

Rose  looked  bewildered.  A  few  minutes  ago  she 
had  understood  Dudley  to  say  that  he  had  com- 
promised, for  her  sake,  with  what  he  believed  to 
be  the  truth.  And  now ! 

"I  don't  understand!"  she  murmured. 

"You  don't  understand  a  man's  fight  to  be  true 
to  the  thing  he  is  pledged  to  do?" 

"I  don't  understand  how  you  have  reconciled 
yourself  to  disregard  the  truth  for  me." 

"I  haven't.  Don't  you  see?  I  couldn't  do 
that — but  by  and  by  it  came  to  me  that  I  needn't 
— that  I  wasn't  called  upon  to  make  this  partic- 

372 


A  Wedding 

ular  disclosure — in  fact,  that  it  were  better  not 
made." 

"Oh!" 

"I  talked  it  over  with  Emstead,  and  he  agreed 
that  in  this  case  the  facts  might  not  be  the  same  as 
the  truth;  that  it  would  be  a  pity  to  place  the  facts 
before  persons  who  might  mistake  them  for  the 
truth ;  and  so,  in  the  interests  of  progress,  it  seemed 
wise  not  to  disturb  the  prevailing  faith." 

"You  came,  then,  to  feel  that  the  prevailing 
faith  is  justified  ?" 

"I  did." 

Her  eyes  shone.     "I  am  so  glad!"  she  cried. 

"It  was  like  this:  There  was  a  woman.  But, 
as  nearly  as  I  can  make  out,  she  was  a  Delilah 
whom  the  Philistines  sent.  The  discredit  should 
go  rather  to  them  who  hatched  the  plot  than  to 
him  who  was  its  victim.  They  laid  him  low,  you 
see — though  not  in  exactly  the  way  that  is  generally 
understood." 

"Was  that  it?"     Rose's  cheeks  were  blazing. 

"That  was  it.  He  was  all  alone — he  was  quite 
cruelly  beset  by  his  foes  and  even  by  his  friends, 
who  could  not  understand — everything  was  op- 
portune— so  they  sent  her  to  him  to  sympathize — 
and  to  destroy  him." 

"Dudley!" 

"So  you  see — at  first  I  learned  the  facts;  and 
then  I  learned  the  truth." 

373 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

She  held  out  both  her  hands  to  him. 

"Forgive  me!"  she  implored.  Her  relief  about 
her  father  was  so  overwhelmingly  great  that  it 
melted  her  to  the  utmost  tenderness;  it  was  so 
great  that,  compared  with  it,  her  relief  to  find 
Dudley  justified  was  very  secondary.  But  she 
was  not  measuring  emotions  and  comparing  them. 
She  only  knew  that  she  felt  as  if  a  millstone  had 
been  lifted  from  about  her  neck,  and  that  she 
wanted  to  be  at  peace  with  all  the  world.  A 
Delilah  ?  Sent  to  snare  him  in  his  loneliness  and 
need!  She  looked  up  at  his  portrait  and  she 
thought  it  smiled  at  her  as  if  to  say:  "Dear  little 
girl!  I'm  so  glad  you  understand.  You  have 
forgiven,  always,  I  know.  But  now  you  realize 
that,  while  I  was  weak,  I  wasn't  low." 

Dudley  held  out  his  arms  to  her,  and  she 
dropped  to  her  knees  and  hid  her  face  against  his 
breast. 

"  It  has  been  a  dreadful  nightmare,"  she  sobbed, 
"all  of  it!  I  am  so  glad  it's  over." 

He  stroked  her  head  caressingly. 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  key  in  the  front  door. 
Rose  scrambled  to  her  feet,  and  an  instant  later 
Davy  came  in,  calling  her. 

"Rose!" 

"I'm  here,"  she  answered. 

He  stood  in  the  doorway  and  looked  at  Prichard. 
It  was  the  first  time  either  man  had  seen  the  other 

374 


A  Wedding 

since  Davy  sprang  into  that  taxi  on  Fourteenth 
Street. 

Rose  stepped  quickly  into  the  breach.  "  Davy ! " 
she  cried.  "I  am  so  glad  you've  come,  dear. 
Dudley  has  just  been  telling  me  the  most  welcome 
news  in  all  the  world." 

Still  Davy  did  not  look  conciliated. 

"He  seems  to  have  made  you  cry  with  his  wel- 
come news,"  was  his  defiant  answer. 

"I  cried  for  joy.  You  must  hear  it,  Davy — 
you'll  want  to  cry,  too." 

"I  think  I  know,"  Davy  returned. 

Prichard  looked  up  questioningly. 

Davy  replied  to  him:  "Emstead  'phoned  Mr. 
Rodman — at  the  club,  where  we  were  lunching." 

"  'Phoned  Rodman?" 

"Yes.     He  knew  Rodman  was  interested." 

"Interested  in  what?" 

"In  your  intended  disclosures.  Mr.  Rodman 
went  to  Pittsburg  to  meet  Emstead  and  came  on 
with  him  this  morning.  Didn't  Emstead  tell 
you?" 

"No." 

"What  reason  did  he  give  for  refusing  to  print 
any  disclosures  about  my  father's  death?" 

"He  didn't  give  any  reason.  I  gave  the 
reason!" 

"Davy,"  Rose  interposed,  "we  have  misjudged 
Dudley.  He  has  explained  it  all  to  me." 

375 


Children  of  ToMorrow 

"Well,  Pll  bet  there  are  things  he  can't  explain 
to  me — or  won't  explain." 

"I  don't  know,"  retorted  Dudley,  "that  I  feel 
called  upon  to  try.  I  made  everything  clear  to 
Rose — she  understands — it  is  our  own  matter  and 
we  have  settled  it." 

Davy  looked  at  his  sister. 

"  Is  that  true,  Rose  ?  Do  you  wish  me  to  keep 
out?" 

"Why,  Davy!  how  you  talk!  Keep  out  of 
what  ?  How  could  you  keep  out  of  my  happiness, 
or  why  should  I  wish  you  to?" 

"  I  don't  know,  dear,"  faltered  Davy  miserably. 
"  If  it's  your  happiness  to  try  to  love  Prichard  and 
you've  found  a  way  to  do  it,  perhaps  I  oughtn't  to 
interfere." 

Prichard's  gorge  was  rising.  "I  call  on  you  to 
explain!"  he  cried.  "What  do  you  mean  ?  You 
make  insulting  hints  and  insinuations.  Explain 
yourself!" 

Davy  turned  to  Rose. 

"Certainly,"  she  declared.  "I've  known  your 
love  longer  than  I've  known  Dudley's,  and  had 
more  proof  of  it.  If  you  have  any  reason  for  be- 
lieving I  shouldn't  trust  him,  I  want  to  know  what 
it  is.  And  I  want  him  to  know  what  it  is,  so  he 
can  answer  it." 

"Well,  it's  this:  Ever  since  the  day  Dudley  de- 
clared his  intention  of  publishing  what  he  had  dis- 

376 


A  Wedding 

covered,  a  little  group  of  our  friends  have  been 
working  quietly  to  see  what  could  be  done  to  cir- 
cumvent him.  Bruce  got  them  together,  and  gave 
himself  up  completely  to  the  work.  Ansel  Rod- 
man helped  him — and  Creighton — and  Mr.  Pen- 
hallow.  They  have  tried  to  discover  what  evidence 
there  was  in  existence  of  my  father's  weakness. 
And  I  think  they  must  have  at  least  as  good  a 
case  as  Prichard's.  As  I  told  you,  Mr.  Rodman 
went  to  Pittsburg  to  meet  Emstead,  and  laid  the 
whole  thing  before  him,  and  Emstead  agreed 
that  such  disclosures  would  cloud  the  truth  rather 
than  clear  it.  He  said  he  would  take  this  stand 
when  Pri chard  submitted  his  facts.  Half  an  hour 
ago  he  called  up  the  club  and  got  Mr.  Rodman  on 
the  wire.  He  said  that  Prichard  had  been  there 
and  that  they  had  had  it  out." 

Davy  paused. 

.  "I  told  Rose  about  the  interview,"  Prichard  de- 
clared, "and  she  was  satisfied  that  I  had  acted 
from  the  best  motives.  Weren't  you,  dear?" 

"Why— yes." 

"Satisfied  ?  Then  you  didn't  tell  her  the  truth! 
I  know  Rose " 

Prichard's  eyes  blazed  with  fury. 

"  Didn't  tell  her  the  truth  ?  In  other  words,  I 
lied !  You  take  advantage  of  her  presence  to  tell 
me  that.  I  can't  hit  you.  But  I  wonder  if  I  am 
the  only  one  who  lies  to  Rose  ?" 

377 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  mean  that  if  she  thinks  she  gets  a  square  deal 
from  you,  I  can  tell  her  that  she  doesn't!  I  was 
able  to  tell  her  something  about  her  father  that 
was  a  great  relief  to  her — that  lifted  the  misunder- 
standing of  many  wretched  years.  Have  you  ever 
told  her  what  you  know  about  that  woman  who 
caused  your  father's  death  ?" 

"I  know  nothing  about  her." 

"  You  do!  I  was  in  your  office  an  hour  ago,  and 
there  was  a  letter  from  her  lying  on  your  desk." 

"How  do  you  know  it  was  from  her?" 

"  Because  I  know  her  handwriting.  I  have  sam- 
ples of  it  in  my  pocket." 

He  pulled  out  a  wallet  and  extracted  from  it 
several  letters  addressed  to  Governor  Innes.  On 
the  margins  were  annotations  in  a  feminine 
hand. 

"Have  you  never  seen  the  handwriting  else- 
where ?"  Prichard  sneered.  It  was  an  unusual 
hand — distinctive — not  easy  to  forget. 

Davy  scrutinized  it  through  his  thick  glasses. 

"It's — it's  like  Mrs.  Bristow's,"  he  murmured 
wonderingly. 

Prichard  stared.  Until  that  moment — so  com- 
plete was  his  absorption  in  his  own  affairs — he 
had  forgotten  the  episode  of  Johnny.  Then,  at 
mention  of  Mrs.  Bristow's  name,  a  flood  of  recol- 
lections suddenly  co-ordinated. 

378 


A  Wedding 

"Yes!"  he  shouted  excitedly.  "Mrs.  Bristow! 
And  your  Johnny  married  her  daughter  Emily 
this  morning  in  the  Mayor's  office." 

He  looked  at  Rose.  She  motioned  him  to  go, 
and  he  went. 


379 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

TELLING   THE    TRUTH 

WHEN  Dudley  was  gone  Rose  lifted  her  head 
from  the  pillow,  where  she  had  buried  it 
on  telling  him  to  go,  and  looked  at  Davy.     She 
was  frightened.     Davy  seemed  like  one  stricken. 

She  went  over  to  him  and  drew  his  head  against 
her  breast. 

"Davy!"  she  whispered. 

Davy  made  a  mighty  effort  to  collect  his  senses 
that  had  been  scattered  by  the  blow.  He  put  his 
arm  around  her  and  leaned  hard,  as  if  for  sup- 
port. 

"What  shall  we  do  ?"  he  groaned. 

Rose  thought  hard.  "There's  so  much,"  she 
murmured.  "One  doesn't  know  where  to  begin. 
Somebody  '11  have  to  think  for  us,  dear.  We're 
both  too  dazed." 

"Yes,"  he  assented,  "we're  dazed." 

"When  you  left  the  club,  was  Mr.  Rodman  still 
there?" 

"Yes.  I  had  lunch  with  him — and  Bruce;  and 
I  left  them  there,  to  come  and  tell  you." 

380 


Telling  the  Truth 

"See  if  you  can't  get  them  now." 

He  went  to  the  telephone,  which  was  in  the 
hall.  Rose  sat  with  her  hands  clenched,  trying  to 
think:  Mrs.  Bristow — the  Delilah — Johnny — 
Emily — the  papers — Dudley — what  would  Dudley 
tell! 

"They'll  be  here  in  ten  minutes,"  said  Davy, 
returning. 

"Did  you  know  anything  about — Johnny?" 
she  asked.  "I  mean — had  you  any  idea  it  had 
gone  this  far?" 

"None  in  the  world." 

"She" —  Rose  was  racking  her  memory  trying 
to  piece  things  together  and  make  an  illuminating 
picture  out  of  scattered  bits — "she  knew  who  we 
were — of  course.  She  knew  all  the  time.  And 
she  let  us  be  good  to  her.  She  let  you  give  her 
work  to  do.  She  came  here — where  his  picture 
is — she  brought  her  girl — to  beguile  our  Johnny — 
she  wasn't  satisfied  with  luring  our  father  to  his 
death — she  must  set  her  snare  for  Johnny,  too. 
And  she's  got  him!  Got  him!  Davy,  this  is  the 
most  hideous  thing  that  ever  happened." 

"It's  hellish!"  Davy  cried.  "I  didn't  know 
there  could  be  such  fiendishness.  I  didn't  know 
that  human  nature  ever  got  so — so  wicked,  and  so 
low.  I've  always  thought  that  the  things  we  call 
wickedness  are  weaknesses.  I  never  thought  there 
could  be  a  soul  so  black — so  devilish." 

38- 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"And  she  seemed  so  sweet  and  good!" 

Davy  lifted  his  arm  and  buried  his  face  in  the 
crook  of  his  elbow. 

"That's  why  I  hate  her  so!"  he  sobbed.  "She 
gave  no  warning.  It  was  such  an  unfair  game!" 

He  lifted  his  head  and  gazed  up  at  the  portrait 
of  his  father. 

"No  wonder  she  brought  you  to  your  death !"  he 
murmured.  "How  could  you  know  what  her 
wiles  were?" 

Rodman  and  Norbury  were  there  almost  im- 
mediately— thanks  to  having  caught  a  taxi  without 
delay. 

They  also  were  so  paralyzed  when  they  had 
heard  the  news  that  for  a  few  moments  it  seemed 
as  if  neither  would  they  be  able  to  think  what  must 
be  done. 

Bruce  was  the  first  to  recover  himself. 

"What  time  was  the  marriage?"  he  asked. 

"Prichard  didn't  say." 

"Didn't  he  tell  you  how  he  found  out  about  it  ?" 

"No.  He  said  he  had  been  to  my  office — 
after  we  left — and  he  may  have  been  to  the  City 
Hall  about  that  time." 

"We  left  there  just  before  twelve." 

"Yes." 

"And  he  must  have  been  there  shortly  after. 
Would  news  of  the  marriage  get  into  the  afternoon 
papers  f" 

382 


Telling  the  Truth 

"  Hardly.  If  it  were  a  sensation — yes.  But  not 
ordinarily." 

"Well,  we  want  to  stop  publication  of  it.  If 
word  of  a  secret  marriage  gets  out,  somebody  may 
set  himself  to  discover  why  it  was  secret." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  will  be  considered  much  of  a 
news  item,"  Davy  interposed. 

"Not  unless  they  fail  to  show  up  to-night  at  the 
theatre.  If  they  do  that,  it's  all  off;  nothing  can 
stop  the  sensation.  The  whole  thing  will  come 
out  then!" 

That  was  indisputable!  They  looked  at  one 
another  aghast. 

Johnny  and  Emily  must  be  found  before  seven 
o'clock.  Or,  if  they  were  not  found,  some  ar- 
rangement must  be  made  with  the  management  to 
keep  the  thing  quiet. 

"I  wonder,"  Rose  faltered — "I  suppose  she 
knows  where  they  are?" 

"The  mother?" 

"Yes." 

"You  think  she  knew  about  it?" 

Rose  turned  to  Ansel  Rodman.  "You  remem- 
ber Friday  evening?"  she  asked.  "You  recall 
how  confused  Mrs.  Bristow  was  when  we  saw 
Johnny  and  Emily  together?  She  had  told  me 
that  Emily  was  dining  with  one  of  the  girls  in  the 
company." 

"It  doesn't  seem  humanly  possible,"  Rodman 

383 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

murmured,  "that  she — the  mother — could  have 
known — approved." 

"Of  course  she  knew!  She  could  never  be  in 
any  doubt  as  to  who  we  were.  And  yet  look  how 
she " 

"That's  so/'  he  admitted.  "I  didn't  sup- 
pose  " 

"No  one  could  be  expected  to  suppose  such  a 
thing,"  Rose  interrupted. 

"Mr.  Rodman,"  Bruce  suggested,  "will  you  go 
to  the  'phone  and  see  if  you  can  get  Mrs.  Bristow  ? 
I  suppose  there's  a  'phone  in  the  house  where  she 
lives.  She  needn't  know  where  you  are.  Be  as 
casual  as  you  can.  See  what  you  can  find  out." 

But  if  any  one  had  ever  heard  the  name  of  the 
Bristows'  landlady — which  was  improbable — no 
one  could  remember  it.  Bruce  tried  to  get  "In- 
formation" to  tell  him  if  there  was  a  'phone  at 
that  number.  "Information  Operator"  was  in- 
clined to  think  it  was  against  the  rules  for  her  to 
tell.  There  was  a  'phone,  but  the  name  and  num- 
ber were  not  in  the  book  and  therefore  could  not 
be  disclosed.  Bruce  appealed  to  the  manager  of 
the  exchange,  but  without  avail.  He  tried  to  get 
the  manager  to  call  the  number  and  say  that  some- 
body wanted  Mrs.  Bristow  to  call —  Oh,  no! 
That  wouldn't  do!  Mrs.  Bristow  would  not  be 
likely  to  call  a  number  which  she  would  doubtless 
recognize  as  the  Inneses*. 

384 


Telling  the  Truth 

"I'll  go  up  there,"  Rodman  said.  "We  kept 
the  taxi,  thinking  we  might  need  it.  I  can  get 
there  in  fifteen  minutes." 

When  he  was  gone  they  tried  to  plan  what  they 
could  do  if  he  found  no  trace  of  Johnny  through 
Mrs.  Bristow. 

"If  he  doesn't,"  declared  Bruce,  "we've  got  to 
get  help  on  this,  and  get  it  at  once.  There's  no 
guessing  what  those  two — Johnny  and  the  girl — 
have  in  mind.  We  don't  know  what  Johnny 
knows,  or  what  he  has  been  made  to  believe. 
The  fact  that  he  hasn't  announced  his  marriage 
to  his  family  suggests  that  he  knew  reasons  why 
he  shouldn't.  And  that's  why  I  am  afraid  they've 
run  away." 

"But  why,  then,  did  they  get  married  here?" 
objected  Rose.  "Why  not  wait  until  they  got  to 
Providence  or  Hartford  or  wherever  they  were 
running  to?" 

Bruce  beamed  at  her,  approving  her  reasoning. 
"That's  right!"  he  admitted.  "Certainly!  they 
must  not  have  intended  to  run  away." 

"I  don't  believe  he  could  have  run  very  far," 
Davy  interposed.  "He  asked  me  for  a  loan  this 
morning,  and  I  hadn't  anything  to  give  him. 
I  loaned  him  fifty  dollars  last  Saturday— and  he 
didn't  pay  it  back.  He  said  he  was  'broke.' 
But  he  may  have  made  a  'touch*  somewhere 
else." 

385 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

Rose  went  into  Johnny's  room  and  looked 
around. 

"Nothing  is  gone — nothing  that  I  can  notice," 
she  said  when  she  returned.  "Of  course,  he 
always  has  a  few  things  at  the  theatre " 

"And  Johnny,"  Davy  added,  smiling  wanly, 
"never  frets  himself  about  small  economies.  He 
has  been  known  to  borrow  money  to  go  out  of 
town  for  a  week-end  in  summer,  and  to  buy  a 
new  travelling  bag  and  fit  it  out  because  it  was  a 
'bother*  to  come  home  and  get  one  ready." 

"So  the  fact  that  he  took  nothing  wouldn't 
prove  that  he  meant  to  come  home  this  afternoon 
and  break  the  news  to  you — would  it?"  Bruce 
mused. 

"Not  at  all." 

"Well,  if  he's  in  town  we  must  find  him.  He 
must  know  what  the  situation  is  and  he  must  face 
it  for  the  good  of  every  one — not  just  for  himself. 
I  don't  suppose  anybody  would  presume  to  guess 
where  he  might  have  gone  after  his  marriage  ?  I 
mean,  if  he  intends  to  tell  about  it,  and  only  slipped 
off  this  way  to  get  it  over  with  before  any  one  could 
object." 

No;   that  would  be  hard  to  say. 

"And  we  don't  want  to  turn  in  a  general  alarm  to 
have  him  hunted  out.  Wait,  though!  Couldn't 
McCurdy  do  it?" 

"Do  what?" 

386 


Telling  the  Truth 

"  Pass  the  word  to  the  police  department  that  he 
wants  Johnny  located — quickly  and  quietly?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Davy  answered.  "But  he 
might  be  able  to." 

"Where  does  he  lunch  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  Probably  the  Lawyers  Club 
or  at  the  Hardware — a  good  many  of  the  city 
people  go  there." 

"We'll  get  his  office  first.  If  he  isn't  there, 
maybe  they'll  know  where  he  is." 

Bruce  got  McCurdy's  office.     Lucius  was  there. 

"Good  God!"  he  answered  when  Bruce  had 
made  his  request.  "I've  got  the  whole  force  out 
now  looking  for  a  girl — for  Sonia  Krakopfsky — 
who  didn't  come  home  last  night.  If  I  get  after 
them  again,  to  find  another  missing  party  of  my 
acquaintance,  they'll  begin  to  think  it's  a  joke!" 

"This  is  something  very  unusual,  Lucius," 
urged  Bruce;  they  had  been  college  mates,  and 
he  felt  that  he  dared  be  urgent.  "We  may  not 
have  to  call  on  you.  But  if  we  do,  don't  you  care 
what  the  police  force  thinks — you  just  tell  them 
you  want  Johnny  Innes,  and  you  want  him  before 
seven  o'clock." 

"Well,  I'll  do  what  I^can,  of  course.  And  I'm 
glad  you  got  me.  I  was  just  about  to  call  up 
Rose  and  ask  her  to  go  to  Catherine.  But  with 
this  worry  of  her  own,  it  is  out  of  the  question,  of 
course." 

387 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"I'll  'phone  your  office  within  an  hour,  if  we 
need  your  help,"  Bruce  told  him.  "Do  you  know 
where  Creighton  is?" 

"  Yes.  He's  helping  me  in  this  other  case.  He's 
going  around  with  Catherine  to  some  of  the  places 
where  she  thinks  she  may  get  trace  of  Sonia." 

In  an  hour  Ansel  Rodman  was  back.  He  was 
greatly  agitated  when  he  came  in. 

"She  knew  nothing  whatever  about  it,"  he  de- 
clared, answering  their  looks  of  questioning.  "  She 
was  paralyzed.  I  have  told  her  everything." 

They  glanced,  one  at  another,  despairingly.  An- 
sel Rodman's  simplicity  was  beyond  belief! 

"I  know  what  you  think,"  he  cried.  "You 
think  she  has  duped  me,  too.  Well,  maybe  she 
has.  I  don't  know.  I  never  know!  But  I 
brought  her  along  so  you  could  see." 

"Brought  her?" 

"Yes;  she's  sitting  on  the  stairs  outside.  I 
said  I'd  come  in  first  and  break  it  to  you." 

"She  sha'n't  come  in  here  again — ever!"  cried 
Davy.  "The  serpent!" 

But  Rose  intervened.  "Wait!"  she  entreated. 
"There  is  nothing  she  can  do  to  harm  us  any 
more.  She  has  done  her  worst — has  done  it 
twice.  We  know  her  now  for  what  she  is.  The 
only  thing  we  need  fear  now  is  that  this  will  get 
into  the  papers — the  cheap,  sensation-mongering 

388 


Telling  the  Truth 

papers — ten  thousand  times  worse  than  any  dis- 
closure Dudley  might  have  made  in  Emstead's 
Magazine.  We're  fighting  that !  We  don't  know 
what  we  have  to  fight  in  her.  I  say,  let's  bring 
her  in — here — in  front  of  father's  picture — in  his 
accusing  presence,  as  it  were — and  measure  her 
for  the  fight!" 

They  all  stared,  speechless,  at  little  Rose.  Her 
slender  figure  was  updrawn  to  its  fullest  height. 
Her  head  was  proudly  erect.  Her  eyes  flashed 
fire.  She  was  like  most  gentle  creatures  when 
driven  to  bay  for  those  they  love,  a  fury. 

Rodman  opened  the  front  door  and  asked  Mrs, 
Bristow  to  come  in. 

Bruce  thought  he  had  never  lived  through  such 
a  tense  moment. 

Davy  stood  gripping  the  back  of  a  chair.  Rose, 
her  small  hands  unmercifully  clinched  together 
against  her  palpitating  breast,  faced  the  door. 

Then  Ansel  Rodman  appeared,  supporting  a 
tottering  figure  larger  than  his  own. 

Olivia  seemed  scarcely  to  come  in  of  her  own 
volition.  It  was  by  no  means  evident  that  she 
knew  where  she  was  or  how  she  had  come. 
But  one  glance  at  her  revealed,  past  all  ques- 
tion, the  all  but  unendurable  agony  she  was  suf- 
fering. 

Bruce  hastened  to  take  her  other  arm  and  to 
lead  her  to  the  davenport. 

389 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"Brandy,  Davy!*'  he  said. 

And  Davy  complied. 

She  swallowed  the  cognac,  and  almost  as  soon 
as  it  was  down  her  self-control  seemed  to  come 
surging  back  to  her. 

"The  stairs,"  she  murmured.  "I  thought  I 
should  never  get  up — my  heart — the  shock." 

Bruce  slipped  into  Davy's  den,  out  of  sight.  He 
was  a  stranger  to  her,  and  the  ordeal  she  had  to 
face  might  be  an  infinitesimal  bit  less  terrible  if  he 
were  not  present. 

The  strain  of  the  situation  was  intense.  It 
seemed  to  Bruce,  listening,  an  eternity  before 
any  one  relieved  it  by  an  utterance.  Then  it  was 
Rodman's  voice,  gentle  but  vibrant  with  feeling, 
that  broke  the  strain. 

"Perhaps,"  he  suggested,  "you  are  not  able — 
in  a  little  while " 

"No,"  she  said.  Then  there  was  a  moment's 
pause.  "No!  There  has  been  too  much  delay." 

Her  tone  was  a  confession  of  fault — without 
plea  for  mercy.  She  sat  forward,  facing  her  young 
judges.  Ansel  Rodman  was  beside  her;  him  she 
could  not  see. 

"I  ask  for  no  forgiveness,"  she  began.  "If 
there  could  be  a  penalty  of  law  for  my  sin,  I  should 
welcome  it.  But  there  isn't.  I  am  not  granted 
the  relief  of  making  any  expiation — except  in 
suffering.  Reparation  no  one  can  ever  make  for 

39° 


Telling  the  Truth 

sin.  I  want  you  to  know  this  though — the  fault 
was  all  mine.  He  did  no  wrong!" 

She  looked  up  at  the  portrait,  and  seemed  to 
gather  strength  from  so  looking. 

"He  was  guilty,"  she  went  on,  "of  the  same  fault 
I  was — the  same  weakness — but  he  expiated.  It 
was  given  to  him  to  expiate.  I  went  on  in  the 
same  weakness — it  was  concealment.  That  was 
all  we  did  that  was  wrong.  We  loved.  We 
couldn't  help  that.  But  we  harmed  no  one — or, 
not  as  you  think  we  did.  We  have  harmed  every 
one  we  loved — in  ways  we  could  not  have  dreamed. 
What  we  did  to  conceal  our  relations  was  done  on 
my  account — not  on  his.  He  had  nothing  to  fear. 
I  had.  Mr.  Rodman  has  told  me  what  you  have 
heard — about  me.  It  is  false — absolutely.  I  was 
not  sent  to  him !  I  went — and  went  clandestinely 
because  my  husband  disapproved.  Let  me  tell 
you  the  story  exactly  as  I  know  it." 

They  signed  to  her  to  go  on;  and  she  began — 
began,  not  with  any  account  of  herself,  pleading 
the  extenuation  for  what  followed,  but  with  the 
simple  statement: 

"Mr.  Bardeen  was  out  of  work  on  account  of 
the  strike.  We  were  in  straits.  I  heard  that  the 
Governor  needed  some  one  to  read  letters  and 
newspapers  for  him.  I  applied  for  the  work." 
And  so  on,  as  briefly  as  she  could.  But  indeed  it 
was  a  brief  story.  "Until  an  hour  ago,"  she  told 

39 l 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

them,  "I  did  not  know  what  it  was  that  Mr.  Bar- 
deen  had  heard  that — that  dreadful  night,  nor 
where  he  had  heard  it." 

She  spoke  shudderingly  of  the  murder.  "  In  a 
way,"  she  said,  "there  was  really  nothing  I  could 
do  but  go  on  concealing  what  I  knew — what  I 
knew  to  be  without  sin,  but  what  I  could  not  ex- 
pect the  world  to  believe  was  pure.  My  great 
wickedness  was  not  then — I  had  no  choice  then, 
after  he  was  dead,  but  to  keep  silent — but  now — 
in  not  fleeing  this  place  when  I  learned  that  you 
were  here — in  compromising,  ever  so  little,  with 
Emily  when  I  knew  that  she  loved  your  brother. 
I  deserve  no  quarter  for  such  wicked  weakness. 
I  ask  none.  The  question  is,  what  can  we  do 
now  ?  I  do  not  want  to  fail  in  this  crisis.  In 
every  other  crisis  I  have  failed.  It  will  surely  be 
granted  to  me  that  I  may  do  something.  And  I 
mean  to  do  it.  I  must  do  it,  whatever  it  is!" 

She  told  them  of  her  talk  with  Emily  on  Sat- 
urday. "She  promised  me  that  there  should  be 
no  engagement — for  a  while.  Then,  yesterday,  I 
learned  that  she  had  a  diamond  ring.  .  .  .  We 
had  a  distressful  night.  This  morning  she  went 
out  about  half-past  ten.  She  did  not  tell  me 
where  she  was  going.  I  was  sitting  there,  trying 
to  gather  courage  to  come  down  here  and  tell  you 
the  whole  story — when  Mr.  Rodman  came." 

Bruce  came  out  from  the  den. 

392 


Telling  the  Truth 

"We've  got  to  find  them  before  seven  o'clock!" 
he  declared.  "After  we've  found  them,  there'll  be 
time  to  talk  over  what  can  be  done.  If  we  can't 
get  them,  somebody  has  got  to  be  thought  of  who 
can  put  pressure  on  the  theatre  management  to 
keep  their  delinquency  dark  for  a  day  or  two — 
give  out  some  story  to  the  company  (though  any 
pressure  that  could  make  the  company  believe  it  is 
not  easy  to  conceive!).  And  in  either  case,  Davy, 
something  has  got  to  be  done  about  the  newspapers 
— and  done  in  short  order." 

Olivia  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  What 
an  endless  chain  of  suppression  was  entailed  by 
those  few  stolen  hours,  long  ago!  Would  there 
never  be  an  end  to  their  penalty? 

It  was  not  necessary  to  find  Johnny  and  Emily. 
They  discovered  themselves  before  any  steps  could 
be  taken  to  discover  them. 

After  lunching  quite  gayly  at  Martin's,  they  had 
got  into  a  taxi  and  gone  up  to  break  the  news  to 
Mrs.  Bristow.  Failing  to  find  her,  they  came 
down  to  Johnny's  house  to  see  if  they  could  find 
Rose. 

They  were  in  irrepressible  good  spirits,  feeling 
that  they  had  burned  their  bridges  behind  them. 

It  was  Ansel  Rodman — in  whom  was  that  dual 
sense  of  sympathy  and  detachment  which  is  the 
foundation  of  the  novelist's  genius — who  realized 

393 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

the  "values"  in  the  entrance  upon  this  tragic  situa- 
tion of  these  two  children  who  had  been  nurtured 
in  irresponsibility  by  the  too  tender  unselfishness 
of  the  three  acutely  suffering  persons  they  now 
confronted. 

They  had  got  married,  Johnny  explained,  be- 
cause Emily  told  him  her  mother's  objections — all 
of  them.  Yes,  he  realized  that  they  were  rather 
grave;  but  he  didn't  believe  any  "inherited  feud" 
ought  to  break  young  hearts  that  were  innocent 
of  wrong.  (Johnny  had  often  been  told  he  would 
"make  a  fine  Romeo."  He  doubtless  felt  like 
one  now.) 

He  refused  to  give  Emily  up.  He  refused  to 
keep  his  marriage  secret,  even  for  a  while. 

"After  all,"  thought  Ansel  Rodman,  "perhaps 
his  is  the  better  wisdom!  But  if  it  be  so,  how 
strangely  are  things  ordered  in  this  world!" 


394 


CHAPTER  XXV 

"  FED    TO   THE    WOLVES  " 

THE  search  for  Sonia  was  not  soon  ended. 
Lucius  bent  every  energy  to  it  for  several 
days,  and  then,  on  a  never-to-be-forgotten  even- 
ing, he  tried  to  break  it  to  Catherine  that  further 
search  was  hopeless. 

Wing  had  a  prolonged  surcease  from  dinner- 
getting.  When  Lucius  was  not  imperatively  en- 
gaged, he  dined  with  Catherine  and  discussed  the 
progress  of  the  hunt. 

After  the  first  day,  she  went  back  to  her  work. 
Her  determination  on  this  point  was  such  that 
Lucius  forbore  to  argue  with  her.  And,  after  all, 
this  was  one  of  the  things  about  her  that  most 
compelled  his  admiration.  Her  work  was  not  an 
important  work;  it  was  not  even  interesting  to  her; 
but  it  was  her  work — it  was  to  be  done — and  she 
had  none  of  that  weak  and  wobbly  fibre  so  many 
women  of  the  softer  sort  had,  which  made  her 
regard  work  as  something  to  be  done  when  private 
griefs  or  private  distractions  allowed.  She  was  a 
proper-spirited  mate  for  a  man  with  work  in  the 
world  to  do — was  Catherine!  Lucius  had  seen 

395 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

more  marriages  shipwreck  because  of  women's  in- 
ability to  conceive  the  obligations  of  work  under- 
taken by  their  husbands  than  for  any  other  one 
reason.  They  were  on  wrong  foundations — those 
marriages  where  one  was  all  for  work  and  one 
was  all  for  play!  He  wanted  to  share  his  com- 
forts with  Catherine;  he  welcomed  the  right  to 
fight  for  her  where  she  could  not  fight  for  herself. 
But  he  thanked  God  that  he  had  a  better  ideal  of 
love  than  to  wish  to  take  Catherine  and  make  her 
into  something  like  an  inmate  of  a  seraglio — a 
wife,  but  an  Oriental  wife;  a  captive  bird  in  a 
cage  of  gilt. 

His  interest  in  finding  Sonia  was,  of  course,  ex- 
clusively on  Catherine's  account.  He  had  never 
seen  Sonia,  and  his  secret  opinion  of  her  was  that 
she  was  probably  best  left  alone.  The  chances 
were  that  she  wanted  to  be  where  she  was,  and 
that  if  rescued  she  would  go  more  or  less  promptly 
back. 

At  any  rate,  he  tried  to  believe  that  she  would. 
And  he  tried  to  suggest  as  much  to  Catherine. 

Catherine  turned  on  him,  blazing  with  fury. 
"You  believe  that?"  she  demanded.  "You?" 

"I  don't  say  that  I  believe  it,"  he  retorted.  "I 
say  it  may  be  so." 

"And  suppose  it  is — now!  It  isn't  going  to 
last — you  know!  There's  a  hideous  awakening." 

"But  you  can't  force  that  awakening." 
396 


"Fed  to  the  Wolves" 

"No,  I  can't  force  it.  But  at  least  I  can  find 
her — my  poor,  pretty  little  lamb  that's  led  away— 
and  tell  her  that  when  she  escapes  the  wolves — if 
she  ever  does — I  shall  be  waiting  for  her,  with  my 
arms  wide  open  and  my  heart — ah,  God!" 

"Would  you  rest  content — or  at  least  make 
yourself  acquiescent — if  you  -could  get  such  a  mes- 
sage to  her?" 

"  If  I  could  take  such  a  message  to  her;  if  I  could 
see  her  and  entreat  her — as  I  entreated  Aggie;  if 
then  she  refused  me,  I  could  do  nothing  for  her — 
for  a  while.  But  I'd  try  harder  in  behalf  of  other 
girls — other  little  sisters  of  the  poor!" 

"It  might  be,"  he  ventured,  "that  a  message 
could  be  got  to  her " 

"  Lucius ! "  The  terrible  accusation  in  her  voice 
almost  made  his  heart  stand  still.  "Lucius!  you 
know  where  she  is!" 

They  were  in  the  street,  on  their  way  to  dinner. 
Her  hand  gripped  his  forearm  with  an  intensity 
that  seemed  like  to  crush  it. 

"  I  do  not  know  where  she  is,"  he  denied.  "  But 
I — I  think  I  know  how  I  could  get  a  message  to 
her." 

Catherine's  clutch  relaxed;  he  thought  she  was 
going  to  fall.  But  he  misread  her.  She  backed 
away  from  him,  quivering  with  rage. 

"Listen,  Catherine,"  he  entreated.  "Don't 
jump  at  conclusions.  Be  just.  I've  done  every- 

397 


Children  of  ToMorrow 

thing  on  earth  I  can.  I  don't  know  where  she  is. 
But  I  have  a  trace  of  her — only  a  trace,  mind  you 
— not  a  clew  to  her  whereabouts.  I  tell  you, 
she's  gone.  There's  nothing  to  do  but  to  resign 
yourself.  But  I'll  do  my  utmost  to  get  your  mes- 
sage to  her." 

"How  can  you  get  it  to  her?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  even  know  that  I  can. 
I  can  try." 

"How?" 

"  I  tell  you,  I  don't  know.  But  if  a  way  opens, 
I  will  follow  it." 

He  took  a  step  toward  her,  but  she  backed  away 
from  him  defiantly. 

"I  understand!"  she  said,  her  voice  break- 
ing into  a  sob.  "It  was  too  wonderful  to  be 
true!" 

And  turning  from  him,  she  ran  back  toward 
Third  Avenue. 

Lucius  followed  her  for  a  few  paces,  imploring 
her  to  listen  to  him.  Then,  fearful  of  making  a 
scene  in  the  street,  he  gave  up  pursuit. 

When  Catherine  got  back  to  her  so-lonely  little 
room,  she  threw  herself  on  the  dingy  bed  and 
wept  tumultuously.  "Oh,  fool!"  she  cried  in 
her  heart.  "Fool!  fool!  to  think  it  could  be 
true.  What  could  he  want  of  you  but  to  amuse 
himself,  and  then  to  mock  you?" 

She  got  up,  after  a  while,  and  took  down  a  dress 

398 


"Fed  to  the  Wolves" 

of  Sonia's  that  was  hanging  on  a  wall-peg,  and 
hugging  it  to  her  bosom,  she  lay  down  again. 

And  she  had  believed  him  when  he  said  he  had 
a  tender  zeal  for  girls — for  the  little  laughter-lov- 
ing daughters  of  the  crowded  tenements!  She  had 
believed  him  when  he  told  her  he  was  trying  to 
have  Sonia  found!  "If  some  one  has  led  Sonia 
away,  deceiving  her  with  lying  words  of  love,  how 
can  I  blame  her  because  she  believed  ?  /  who 
believed  him!" 

It  was  Mollie  who  heard  her  sobbing.  She 
opened  the  door  and  crept  in.  The  sounds  and 
signs  of  grief  were  familiar  to  Mollie. 

Catherine  raised  her  head  to  see  who  had  en- 
tered. She  did  not  speak  when  she  saw  it  was 
Mollie,  but  buried  her  head  again  in  the  pillows. 
Mollie  cuddled  in  beside  her  and  waited.  Wise 
little  Mollie!  She  knew  that  comfort  must  not 
obtrude — that  it  must  bide  its  time — must  be 
loving  enough  to  wait. 

By  and  by  Catherine  stretched  out  an  arm  and 
drew  Mollie  close — oh,  very  close! 

The  Crehores  knew,  of  course,  that  Sonia  was 
gone.  They  knew,  too,  that  a  friend  of  Catherine's 
— on  .whose  friendship  they  put  their  own  inter- 
pretation— was  helping  in  the  search  for  her. 
Crehore  was  a  humble  politician,  but  he  was  part 
of  a  close-knit  organization;  he  knew  something 
of  its  methods,  and  even  to  his  obscure  place  in  it 

399 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

a  certain  amount  of  "inside  information"  perco- 
lated. He  knew,  as  he  said,  "all  about"  Lucius 
McCurdy;  he  thought  he  knew  about  what  kind 
of  interest  Mr.  McCurdy  could  take  in  Catherine — 
and  even  at  that,  there  was  no  accounting  for 
tastes. 

After  an  hour  or  so  of  silent  comforting,  Mollie 
grew  alarmed  because  there  was  no  abatement  of 
Catherine's  grief.  Mollie  could  feel  the  rigidity  of 
Catherine's  body;  the  unrelaxing  strain  with  which 
she  held  the  child  to  her. 

"Cath'rine,"  she  whispered,  in  a  frightened 
tone,  "what  is  it?  Is  Sonia  dead?" 

Catherine  released  Mollie  and  sat  up  in  bed, 
pressing  one  hand  against  her  forehead  as  if  to 
quiet  an  intolerable  throbbing. 

"No,"  she  answered;  "no!  Sonia  is  not  dead 
— not  dead — poor  little  Sonia!" 

"What  makes  her  'poor,'  Cath'rine  ?" 

Catherine  gripped  the  child's  shoulders  and 
shook  her  fiercely. 

"  Because  the  wolves  have  got  her!"  she  moaned. 
"The  wolves — his  friends " 

Mollie  was  terrified.  She  ran  into  her  own 
house.  Her  father  was  just  going  out. 

"Something's  the  matter  with  Cath'rine!"  she 
sobbed.  "She  acks  terrible,  an'  says  the  wolves 
has  eat  up  Sonia." 

Crehore  looked  at  his  wife  significantly.  Then 
he  stepped  to  Catherine's  door  and  knocked. 

400 


"Fed  to  the  Wolves" 

Catherine  opened  the  door  a  few  inches  and 
peered  out. 

"It's  me,"  he  announced.     "Did  yer  frien'  tell 

ye?" 

"Tell  me  what?" 

"About  Sonia.     That  he  knows  where  she  is." 

"He  told  me  he  didn't  know." 

Crehore  laughed  harshly.  "He's  a  four-flush- 
er, all  right.  He  hates  to  admit  there's  anythin' 
he  can't  do." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"I  mean  this:  lemme  pass  ye  the  tip,  Cath'rine; 
ye'll  not  git  Sonia  back,  an'  ye  may  as  well  stop 
iookin'." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Because  I  know  who's  got  'er.  It's  a  man 
higher  up  than  yer  frien',  an'  he  darsent  say  a 
word." 

Catherine  was  on  her  feet  confronting  him  as  he 
stood  in  the  half-open  door. 

"Does  Mr.  McCurdy  know  that?" 

"Sure  he  knows  it!" 

"And  how  do  you  know  it?" 

Crehore's  manner  changed.  From  having  been 
free  and  self-important,  it  began  to  show  signs  of 
hedging. 

"Things  git  around,"  he  said.  "I  thought  I'd 
tip  ye  off,  so  ye  wouldn'  waste  no  more  hopes  on 
it." 

Catherine's  first  impulse  was  to  blaze  out  at 
401 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

him — as  one  of  a  vile  gang.  But  she  bethought 
herself  that  a  little  restraint,  a  little  craft,  might 
serve  her  much  better. 

"Do  you  know  where  she  is?"  she  asked  him 
persuasively. 

"No." 

"Do  you  know  who  has  her?" 

"How'd  I  know?  I  on'y  heard  it  whispered 
aroun'  that  it  was  a  man  high  up — wid  a  pull  so 
strong  no  one  kin  pull  agin  'im." 

"How  did  she  come  to  meet  such  a  man  ?" 

Crehore  looked  at  her.  He  had  thought  Cath- 
erine knew  more  about  such  things. 

"I  don'  suppose  she  ever  heard  of  *im,"  he 
laughed. 

"You  mean  that  some  one — some  one  got  her 
—for  him?" 

"Sure!" 

Catherine  clutched  at  the  door  for  support. 

"So  that  —  was  —  it!"  she  gasped.  "The 
wolves!  And  he  knew!" 

Crehore  had  compassion,  according  to  his  kind, 
for  the  agony  he  read  in  her  face. 

"Don5  take  it  so  hard!"  he  consoled.  "Sonia's 
prob'ly  got  it  swell  where  she  is." 

Again  Catherine  restrained  her  ruling  impulse 
and  resorted  to  guileful  entreaty. 

"Maybe  she  has,"  she  assented.  "Poor  little 
Sonia!  I  wish  I  knew.  I  wouldn't  ask  anything 
more  if  I  could  just  know  that  she  was  satisfied. 

402 


"Fed  to  the  Wolves" 

Don't  you  suppose  I  could  see  her,  if  I  promised 
not  to  ask  her  to  come  away?" 

Crehore  shifted  about  uneasily.  "Why,"  he 
answered,  "she  could  surely  send  ye  word  if  she 
wanted  t'  see  ye.  Ye  don'  believe  in  this  'white 
slave'  foolishness,  do  ye?" 

"Believe  in  it  ?"  cried  Catherine,  throwing  pru- 
dence to  the  winds;  "of  course  I  believe  in  it! 
Even  if  she's  not  in  slavery  behind  locks  and  bars, 
she's  in  slavery  to  the  idea  that  because  she's  been 
trapped  there's  nothing  for  her  but  to  stay  trapped. 
That's  slavery  enough!  I  want  to  tell  her  that 
it  doesn't  matter  what  she  has  done;  I  want  her 
back  and  I'll  love  her  better  than  I  ever  knew  how 
to  love  her  before!" 

Crehore  shrugged.  "I  don*  make  out  that 
Sonia's  very  strong  for  sisterly  affection,"  he  de- 
clared. "I'll  bet  she'd  rather  have  what  she's 
got  now  than  all  ye  could  ever  give  'er  to  yer  dy- 
ing day." 

Lucius  went  home  when  he  saw  that  he  could 
not  make  Catherine  hear  him.  He  got  on  a 
Third  Avenue  car  and  went  back  to  his  rooms. 
There,  at  least,  he  could  be  alone  with  his  thoughts. 
He  dared  not  be  otherwise;  for  he  felt  that  if  any 
one  were  to  speak  to  him,  he  was  likely  to  become 
guilty  of  homicide. 

He  let  himself  in  and  went  up  to  the  sitting- 

403 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

room.  Wing  had  left  a  cheery  fire  banked  high 
in  the  hard-coal  grate.  Lucius  turned  on  no 
light — partly  because  he  wanted  the  consolation 
of  the  dark,  and  partly  because  he  did  not  want 
callers. 

He  dropped  into  his  Morris  chair  before  the  fire 
and  sat  staring. 

An  hour  ago,  when  he  came  home,  he  had  found 
Crehore  waiting  for  him. 

Crehore  introduced  himself.  Lucius  recognized 
the  name  as  that  of  Catherine's  landlord,  and  in- 
stantly he  was  a  prey  to  sick  fear;  something  had 
befallen  Catherine! 

"Did — did  Miss  Krakopfsky  send  you?"  he 
faltered. 

Crehore  laughed.     "No,"  he  answered. 

Lucius  felt  in  the  man's  manner  that  which  was 
sinister. 

"Well?"  he  demanded  sharply.  His  tone  was 
that  of  command,  but  his  feeling  was  one  of  anxiety 
to  have  the  worst  quickly  over. 

Crehore  did  not  cringe.  He  knew  the  ground 
on  which  he  stood. 

"Ye're  lookin'  fer  the  girl  Sonia,"  he  began. 

Lucius  nodded  brusquely. 

"  Ye'd  better  keep  off,"  Crehore  advised,  leering. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I'm  here  to  tell  ye  it'll  be  damn  onwholesome 
fer  ye  t'  go  any  furder  wid  this." 

404 


"Fed  to  the  Wolves" 

"You — you — *  Lucius  could  not  frame  his 
accusing  question. 

"  Steady ! "  cautioned  Crehore.  "  There's  power 
bigger'n  yours,  my  frien',  takin'  care  o'  me  on  this 
job." 

"Then  it's  your  job,  is  it?" 

"It's  my  job,  all  right — though  Sonia  don'  know 
it,  even." 

"You  mean  that  you've  trapped  her — got  some 
one  to  trap  her  for  you — and  handed  her  over — to 
curry  favor  for  yourself  with  some  brute  in  power  ?" 

"Steady!  It  wouldn'  be  good  fer  yer  future 
if  he  knew  ye'd  called  'im  a  brute." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"I  wasn't  to  mention  no  names.  On'y,  if  ye 
didn'  believe  me,  I  was  t'  tell  ye  t'  take  notice  how 
busy  th'  p'lice  could  git — an'  do  nothin'!" 

When  he  was  gone,  Lucius  did  some  hard 
thinking  for  a  few  minutes,  during  which  the  reason 
for  the  futile  efforts  of  three  days  became  unmis- 
takably plain  to  him.  Then  he  pulled  himself 
together  with  a  mighty  effort  and  went  to  meet 
Catherine. 

In  the  dark  sitting-room  by  the  fire  he  was  re- 
viewing many  things.  This  was  "Practical  Pol- 
itics" indeed! 

He  must  have  been  there  a  matter  of  two  hours, 
now  pacing  up  and  down  like  a  caged  beast  in 

405 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

sullen  rage  because  he  could  not  destroy  his  bars, 
and  now  returning  to  his  Morris  chair  to  sit  for  a 
while  with  his  shoulders  bowed,  his  head  buried 
in  his  hands — when  he  heard  his  door-bell  ring. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  he  stepped  to  the  window 
to  look  down.  By  the  light  of  the  street  lamp  he 
could  see  who  his  caller  was  when  he  went  away. 

There  were  three  rings.  Then  he  heard  the  im- 
portunate one  going  away.  It  was  Catherine! 

He  raised  the  window  and  called  to  her  to  come 
back,  and  in  a  minute  he  was  downstairs  and  at  the 
open  door. 

"My  dear!"  he  cried.  "I  am  so  glad  you've 
come!" 

He  held  out  both  hands  to  her  in  welcome,  and 
would  have  drawn  her  in,  but  she  declined  to 
come. 

"I'll  say  my  say  here!"  she  declared,  her  voice 
shaking  with  passion. 

"Not  on  the  doorstep!"    he  pleaded. 

"Yes,  on  the  doorstep!  Do  you  suppose  I'd  go 
across  your  threshold — you — you  vile  ensnarer?" 

"Catherine!" 

"Don't  insult  me  further!  I've  stood  enough 
from  you.  I  have  no  hope  that  you'll  tell  me  where 
she  is — my  little  lamb  that  you've  fed  to  your 
wolves — I'll  not  waste  breath  by  asking  you — I'll 
save  it  to  denounce  you  with — you  and  all  your 
rotten  kind  who  live  on  the  shame  of  girls.  And 

406 


"Fed  to  the  Wolves" 

how  you  lied  to  me  about  protecting  them — YOU  ! 
Why,  the  deliberate  destruction  of  them  is  part 
of  your  system  of  spoils!  I  know!  He's  got  her 
now — that  beast  whose  lair  you  dare  not  invade! 
And  what  will  he  do  with  her,  presently  ?  He'll 
turn  her  loose  to  become  a  thing  that  can  be  levied 
on  for  blackmail,  to  gorge  him  and  you  with  lux- 
ury. Those  girls  that  walk  the  streets  are  part  of 
the  Practical  Politics  you  champion.  You  trade 
in  their  shame  for  revenue.  I'll  cry  your  vile 
traffic  from  every  house-top — until  you  set  your 
wolves  on  me  to  silence  me.  And  I  left  Russia  so 
I  could  keep  Sonia's  honor  safe!" 

Lucius  reached  forward  suddenly  and  caught 
her.  She  must  listen  to  him!  She  should  not 
think  such  things  of  him! 

But  she  wrenched  herself  free  and  was  gone, 
stumbling  in  tear-blindness  toward  the  garish 
lights  of  the  Bowery  and  of  Chinatown. 


407 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

"  PRACTICAL    POLITICS  " 

"TT  remains  to  be  seen  what  Prichard  may  do," 
JL  said  Creighton,  to  whom  Norbury  had  related 
the  developments  of  that  eventful  Thursday. 

Bruce's  face  darkened.  "I  wish  it  remained 
to  be  seen  what  some  of  us  could  do  to  him,"  he 
muttered.  "But  there's  nothing  we  can  do  with- 
out stirring  up  the  very  comment  we  want  to  avoid. 
I  don't  think  he'll  do  much,  though.  The  fangs 
of  the  situation  are  drawn,  now  that  Mrs.  Bardeen 
has  been  found.  He  has  no  evidence.  And  there's 
a  pretty  good  case  against  him  if  he  intimates  any- 
thing; because  her  word  ought  to  be  at  least  as 
good  at  his,  and  the  fact  that  one  of  the  Inneses 
has  married  her  daughter  is  proof  pretty  positive 
— or  they  can  make  it  seem  so — that  the  children 
hold  her  blameless." 

"Do  they?" 

"  I  think  they  do.  They  had  good  reason,  there 
for  awhile  on  Thursday  before  she  came,  to  feel 
terribly  bitter  against  her.  But  I  think  she  has 
won  them." 

"Do  you  believe  her?" 
408 


"Practical  Politics" 

"Yes;  I  do.  So  does  Rodman.  She  told  him 
about  herself  quite  freely,  it  seems,  and  he  was 
thoroughly  impressed.  And  Rose  and  Davy  are 
so  essentially  just  that  they  were  not  hard  to  plead 
to.  In  any  case,  though,  they  couldn't  help  seeing 
that  all  the  common  sense  of  the  case  lay  in  try- 
ing to  believe  her,  in  accepting  Johnny's  marriage, 
and  in  letting  things  drift.  Of  course  they're  not 
saying  anything  about  Mrs.  Bristow  being  the 
wife  and  Emily  being  the  daughter  of  their  father's 
assassin.  That's  unnecessary.  But  if  it  ever 
comes  out,  it'll  be  less  a  bogey  than  it  would  be  if 
they  were  estranged  from  her." 

"  Yes— naturally." 

"They're  not  trying  to  strain  things — Mrs.  Bris- 
tow remains  in  the  boarding-house  alone.  Johnny 
and  Emily  have  got  a  couple  of  rooms  in  a  moder- 
ate-priced hotel.  Rose  and  Davy  are  to  stay  as 
they  are;  they  won't  make  any  effort  to  avoid 
Mrs.  Bristow.  And — you  know  them!  They'll 
be  trying  to  find  a  way  for  her  to  be  happy,  and  to 
boost  her  into  it,  before  a  fortnight's  passed." 

Creighton  nodded.  "They're  dear  people,"  he 
declared.  "I  never  met  dearer." 

"Nobody  ever  did,"  said  Bruce.  "I'll  guarantee 
that  if  that  house  they're  living  in  stands  up  for 
fifty  more  years,  there'll  be  a  tablet  on  it  to  tell 
the  passers-by  that  'Here  were  encouraged  more 
dreams  to  which  the  world  is  in  debt,  than  in  any 

409 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

other  one  place  in  Manhattan.'  And  Rose!  I'll 
venture  to  say  there  isn't  a  woman  in  New  York  to- 
day who'll  figure  oftener  in  the  intimate  literature 
of  fifty  years  hence  than  she  will." 

Again  Creighton  nodded  acquiescence.  "If 
ever,"  he  suggested,  "anything  were  to  be  said  that 
seemed  to — to  assail  her  happiness,  she  would  not 
lack  able  defenders." 

"I  should  say  not!  There  are  too  many  persons 
in  her  debt.  And  it's  the  kind  of  debt  that  makes 
no  enemies.  You  loan  money  to  a  man,  and  the 
chances  are  that  you  lose  a  friend.  But  give  him 
belief — encouragement — when  he  most  needs  it, 
and,  unless  he's  a  dog,  he  doesn't  forget." 

The  two  men  were  breakfasting  together — a  late 
breakfast — in  a  quiet  corner  of  The  Players  dining- 
room,  and  as  their  talk  ran  on,  it  touched  upon 
the  number  of  persons  who  had  heard  something 
of  the  whispered  stories  about  the  Innes  shooting, 
and  how  still,  notwithstanding,  the  matter  had 
been  kept. 

"People  are  pretty  decent — most  of  them," 
Bruce  observed;  "especially  where  their  affec- 
tionate loyalty  is  appealed  to.  Take  this  club,  for 
instance.  I  was  too  young  to  belong  to  it  while 
Edwin  Booth  was  alive;  but  I've  heard  the  older 
men  talk — as  you  have — about  the  lengths  to  which 
any  of  them  would  go  to  keep  even  the  most  round- 
about mention  of  John  Wilkes  or  of  Lincoln  from 

410 


"Practical  Politics" 

being  made.  Everybody  had  to  know  about  that 
tragedy,  of  course.  But  it  was  the  constant  effort 
of  Edwin  Booth's  friends  to  make  it  appear  that 
they  had  forgotten  how  Lincoln  died. 

"I  remember,"  he  went  on,  "another  instance 
of  that  feeling  in  people.  The  first  time  I  was  in 
Salem,  Mass.,  I  had  not  been  long  out  of  college. 
I  was  moderately  interested  in  Salem  witchcraft 
and  immoderately  interested  in  Hawthorne.  I 
poked  around — found  the  Union  Street  house 
where  he  was  born,  and  the  Manning  house  on 
Herbert  Street  where  he  lived  so  long,  and  the 
Peabody  house  on  Charter  Street  where  he  courted 
Sophia.  I  went  down  to  the  Custom  House. 
And  then  I  had  a  fancy  for  trying  to  retrace  his 
steps  to  Mall  Street  whither  he  had  gone  to  tell 
Sophia  he  had  lost  his  job — only  to  be  met  by  her 
brave  reply :  *  Good !  Now  you  can  write  your 
novel!' — which  novel  was  'The  Scarlet  Letter.1 
I  think  it  was  in  the  Charter  Street  Burying 
Ground,  where  Judge  Hathorne,  who  condemned 
the  witches,  lies,  that  I  suddenly  remembered  it 
was  in  Salem  that  the  famous  White  murder  oc- 
curred. You  remember?" 

"Yes.  Webster — and  the  'murder  will  out* 
speech  we  used  to  read  in  school." 

"The  same.  There  were  two  elderly  ladies 
browsing  about  among  the  gravestones.  One  of 
them  looked  to  be  a  Salemite,  showing  a  friend 
the  sights.  I  asked  her  if  the  White  mansion  was 

411 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

still  standing.  She  had  never  heard  of  any  such 
mansion.  I  must  have  asked  a  dozen  persons. 
No  one  knew.  I  gathered  from  their  manner  that 
even  Daniel  Webster's  name  was  strange  to  them. 
So  I  went  into  the  Essex  Institute — where  there  is 
a  museum  of  Salem  antiquities — and  bought  a 
guide  book  to  Salem.  It  was  a  bulky  book  and  it 
seemed  to  mention  every  personage  who  had  ever 
ridden  through  Salem  on  a  fast  train.  But  no 
Webster!  No  one  named  White!  I  approached 
the  young  lady  from  whom  I  had  bought  the  book 
and  asked  her  if  I  could  be  mistaken  about  Salem 
being  the  place.  She  drew  me  aside  and  whispered 
to  me,  reproachfully,  that  in  Salem  no  one  ever 
mentions  the  White  murder — out  of  respect  to  the 
eminent  and  universally  beloved  family,  two  of 
whose  members  were  convicted  of  the  crime. 
One  of  these  two  was  hanged — if  I  remember 
rightly — and  the  other  hanged  himself  in  Salem 
jail.  The  mansion  of  the  murdered  Mr.  White 
is  next  door  to  the  Institute  and,  on  my  promise 
to  be  very  discreet,  she  accompanied  me  out  into 
the  yard  where  I  went  to  see  the  first  Protestant 
Church  in  America,  and  showed  me  the  window 
by  which  the  murderer  entered.  I  thought  that 
was  pretty  fine  of  Salem !  I  thought  this  nice  con- 
sideration lent  the  old  town  as  rich  a  flavor  as 
anything  Hawthorne  ever  wrote  about  it." 

"I  agree  with  you/' 

"And  once,"  Bruce  continued,  "some  newspa- 
412 


"Practical  Politics" 

per  man  I  know  told  me  of  another  interesting 
case.  He  said  that  in  a  certain  Virginia  town 
there  is  just  such  a  tradition  of  loyal  silence. 
One  of  the  Randolphs  of  Roanoke  was  charged 
with  a  pretty  heinous  crime.  Whether  his  towns- 
folk did  or  did  not  believe  him  innocent,  they  be- 
lieved in  and  gloried  in  the  Randolphs  as  a  family. 
Patrick  Henry  defended  him.  This  man  told  me 
that  a  hundred  years  or  so  after  the  affair,  one  of 
the  sensational  papers  here  in  New  York  got  wind 
of  it  and  wanted  to  play  it  up  for  a  Sunday  feature. 
It  was  reported  that  an  elderly  lady  who  was  a 
descendant  of  Patrick  Henry  was  in  possession  of 
the  documents  detailing  the  case.  The  paper  sent 
a  representative  to  her.  She  was  found  to  be  in 
circumstances  of  great  need,  but  she  declined 
with  scorn  and  indignation  the  offer  of  a  large  sum 
for  her  '  evidence.'  It  does  a  body  good  to  hear 
of  things  like  that." 

"Telephone  call  for  you,  Mr.  Creighton,"  an- 
nounced an  attendant  of  the  club. 

Creighton    excused    himself  and    went    to    the 

O 

'phone.     When  he  came  back  his  face   was   full 
of  trouble. 

"It  was  McCurdy,"  he  said.  "He's  in  a  bad 
way.  He  wanted  me  to  come  down  town  and  see 
him.  Something  about  the  Krakopfskys." 

"He's  much  interested  there?" 

"In  Catherine — yes." 

413 


Children  of  ToMorrow 

"If  anything  very  happy  eventuates  there,  it'll 
be  another  page  in  the  golden  records  of  Rose 
Innes." 

"That's  a  fact— it  will." 

Creighton  found  Lucius  in  his  office,  trying  to  get 
through  with  his  work  but  pitiably  wretched. 

It  cost  McCurdy's  pride  something  to  admit  the 
truth  to  Creighton,  but  he  went  through  with  the 
ordeal  unflinchingly. 

Creighton  forbore  to  suggest  by  word  or  look 
or  tone:  "I  told  you  so."  When  Lucius  was 
through  he  asked: 

"How  can  I  help  you  ?" 

"You  can  do  this,"  Lucius  suggested,  "if  you 
will;  you  can  see  Catherine.  She  will  listen  to 
you.  She  would  not  listen  to  me." 

Creighton's  eyes  had  an  inscrutable  expression. 
There  was  pain  in  it — intense  pain — but  there  was 
something  besides,  something  not  easy  to  read. 

"Yes,"  he  agreed.     "I'll  see  her — of  course." 

"And  you'll  make  it  plain  to  her  that  I  knew 
nothing  of  it  —  absolutely  nothing  —  until  last 
night?" 

"  I'll  tell  her.  But  you  know  what  her  first  ques- 
tion will  be!" 

"What?" 

"It  will  be:     'What  is  he  going  to  do  about  it?'  3 

Lucius  groaned.  "There's  the  rub,"  he  faltered. 
414 


"Practical  Politics" 

"Still?     In  spite  of  all  this?" 

McCurdy  got  up  and  began  to  pace  up  and 
down  his  office  excitedly. 

"Why,  Creighton!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  know 
as  well  as  I  do  that  this  isn't  politics — it's  human 
nature.  The  beast  has  always  existed.  Every 
political  economy  since  the  Garden  of  Eden  has 
depended  upon  him  and  contended  against  him 
— some  contending  more,  some  less.  This  par- 
ticular individual  beast  belongs  to  the  same 
political  organization  that  I  belong  to.  But  if 
there  is  any  political  organization  which  has  not 
its  quota  of  beasts,  and  does  not  have  to  accept 
them,  I've  never  heard  of  it.  Vice  and  blackmail 
are  part  and  parcel  of  the  history  of  all  power.  A 
man  must  wade  through  their  mire  to  get  any- 
where  " 

"Then  what  am  I  to  tell  Catherine?" 

"Tell  her  ?  Why,  tell  her  I  had  no  more  to  do 
with  Sonia's  going  than  you  had.  And  that  I 
have  no  more  power  than  you  have  to  get  her 
back." 

Again  that  inscrutable  look  in  Ballard  Creigh- 
ton's  eyes. 

"I'll  tell  her,"  he  said. 

He  waited  at  the  corner  of  Third  Avenue  and 
Twenty-fourth  Street,  around  six  o'clock,  for 
Catherine  to  come  by.  He  was  afraid  to  go  to 

415 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

the  Crehores' — afraid  he  might  meet  Crehore — 
afraid  of  what  he  might  do. 

Catherine  came  up  the  avenue  wearily  and 
turned  the  corner  with  dragging  steps.  Creigh- 
ton's  heart  ached  for  her  almost  intolerably. 

She  was  pathetically  glad  to  see  him. 

"Don't  go  back  there,"  he  entreated,  nodding 
irefully  toward  the  Crehores'  house.  "Come 
somewhere  with  me  where  we  can  talk — and  eat. 
I —  You  look  to  me  like  a  girl  who  hadn't  eaten 
or  slept  in  many  hours.  It  won't  do,  you  know! 
If  we're  going  to  find  Sonia,  we've  got  to  have 
strength." 

"  But  we're  not  going  to  find  her.  She's  gone — 
fed  to  the  wolves." 

"We  are  going  to  find  her!"    he  declared. 

His  tone  rang  with  confidence  that  thrilled  her 
and  rekindled  her  hope. 

"Are  we?"  she  murmured  tremulously.   "How?" 

"I  must  tell  you  other  things  before  I  tell  you 
that,"  he  answered;  and  then  he  told  her  about 
Lucius. 

When  he  came  to  the  part  implicating  Crehore, 
he  thought  she  would  crush  the  bones  in  his  fore- 
arm, she  clutched  it  so  wildly.  It  was  her  vent: 
instead  of  screaming  or  sobbing  or  crying  or  faint- 
ing, just  that  clutch,  like  that  of  any  creature  who 
endures  mortal  agony  in  silence. 

When  she  could  speak  she  said:  "I  mustn't 
416 


"Practical  Politics" 

ever  go  back  there!  If  I  should  kill  him,  the  law 
would  put  me  away;  and  who  would  help  Sonia 
then?  The  law!  It  won't  give  me  any  justice, 
nor  let  me  take  vengeance  for  myself.  It  might 
fall  to  Lucius  McCurdy  to  send  me  to  the  electric 
chair!" 

She  spoke  with  the  bitterness  of  gall,  as  if  she 
had  no  reason  to  suppose  he  would  not  prosecute 
her  if  his  party  interests  demanded. 

Creighton  pleaded  McCurdy's  anguish  of  mind 
and,  as  he  had  expected,  Catherine  immediately 
demanded: 

"What  is  he  going  to  do?" 
"He  says  there  is  nothing  he  can  do." 
"And  yet  he  thinks  he  suffers — thinks  he  loves!" 
"He's  bound.     A  bound  man  cannot  love.     I'm 
free,  nothing  holds  me — no  ties  of  any  sort.     I'll 
show  him!" 

Then  he  told  her  of  his  plan. 
"We  could  ask  some  of  our  friends  to  take  this 
matter  to  the  papers,"  he  began;  "to  papers  of 
the  opposing  party.  But  we  don't  know  that 
they'd  take  it  up — perhaps  they're  not  eager  for 
retaliation — and  if  we  asked  a  magazine  to  tell 
our  wrongs,  they'd  be  months  in  getting  into  print. 
There's  nothing  for  us  but  to  tell  them  ourselves 
— you  and  I.  I'm  ready  to  tell  Sonia's  story  from 
every  curbstone  in  Manhattan — if  you'll  let  me. 
I've  nothing  to  enlist  for  your  aid  but  an  actor's 

417 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

voice,  an  actor's  training  in  putting  things  *  across.' 
But  if  you'll  give  me  permission,  I'll  appeal  to 
every  man  whose  ears  I  can  reach,  to  go  to  Mul- 
berry Street,  or  to  City  Hall,  or  wherever  need  be, 
and  demand  the  return  of  Sonia.  It  wouldn't  take 
all  the  voters  in  Manhattan  to  move  the  Powers 
that  Be.  What  do  you  say  ?" 

"Say?"  she  echoed.  "I  say  when  can  we 
begin?" 

"  In  about  thirty  minutes — if  you'll  eat  enough 
to  give  you  strength." 

Catherine  ate  obediently  all  that  he  urged  her 
to.  The  relief  to  her  in  the  prospect  of  being  able 
to  do  something — actually  herself  to  do  it — was 
tremendous.  Creighton  reflected  as  he  watched 
her  that  the  passivity  to  which  most  of  us  in  these 
highly  civilized  days  are  consigned  at  times  of 
great  stress,  is  one  of  society's  cruelties  that  ought 
somehow  to  be  offset  since  it  cannot  be  done 
away  with.  We  have  agreed  to  delegate  to  others 
the  avenging  of  our  wrongs,  the  recovery  of  our 
lost,  the  power  to  demand  for  us  better  laws. 
Society  is  better  managed  so.  But  individually 
we  suffer.  We  sit  by  and  wait  for  some  one  who 
ought  to  bear  our  interests  in  his  heart  but  proba- 
bly does  not,  and  we  suffer  the  agony  of  inaction 
and  also  the  deprivation  of  all  that  might  develop 
in  us  with  the  experience  of  standing  personally  up 
to  a  crucial  situation  and  wrestling  with  it  until 

418 


"Practical  Politics" 

we  triumph  or  until  we  cannot  wrestle  any  more. 
Catherine  had  been  paying  the  penalty  of  civiliza- 
tion. To-night  she  was  going  to  have  done  with 
waiting  on  a  politically  controlled  police  and  do 
something  of  her  own  power  to  get  Sonia  back. 

The  first  thing  he  did  when  they  were  through 
their  dinner  was  to  telephone  Rose  Innes  and 
ask  her  if  Catherine  might  come  there  for  the 
night. 

"I  can't  explain  much  over  the  'phone,"  he 
said;  "but  it's  this:  Mollie's  father  was  re- 
sponsible for  Sonia's  going  away.  You  under- 
stand ?  And  Catherine  has  just  found  it  out. 
She  mustn't  go  back  there." 

"Of  course  not!"  Rose  agreed  readily.  "Ask 
her  to  come  right  to  us." 

"  She —  We  are  going  somewhere  first.  It  may 
be  rather  late  when  she  gets  to  you.  Will  that 
matter?" 

"Not  a  bit.  We're  usually  up  pretty  late  any- 
way. And  if  you're  delayed  beyond  our  usual  bed- 
time, I'll  wait  up  for  you  till  you  come." 

"We'll  try  not  to  keep  you  waiting.  Thank 
you,  and  good-by." 

Then  they  started  out— just  they  two  against 
the  great  unheeding  city — to  try  to  get  Sonia  back. 

Creighton  had  been  busy  throughout  dinner 
thinking  where  he  should  go  to  launch  his  plea. 
He  wanted  to  talk  to  men  who  had  sweethearts 

419 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

and  daughters.  Fortunately  the  night  was  mild, 
and  open-air  audiences  were  not  impossible. 

"Let's  try  Tompkins  Square,"  he  suggested. 

Catherine  agreed. 

There  were  more  children  in  the  square  than 
adults,  and,  of  the  latter,  more  women  than  men. 
But  Creighton  was  willing  to  begin  with  a  small 
audience.  Indeed,  he  was  glad  so  to  begin,  for 
he  was  frightened.  Like  nearly  all  actors,  he  was 
miserably  afraid  of  the  thing  impromptu.  With  all 
his  heart  he  desired  to  be  able  to  do  that  thing, 
but  when  it  came  to  the  test  he  was  panic-stricken. 

He  stopped  before  a  bench  on  either  end  of 
which  sat  an  absorbed  couple  courting. 

"I  wonder,"  he  began  in  a  low  voice,  "if  you 
two  men  would  do  something  to  help  a  young  girl 
who  is  in  very  great  distress  ?  Not  give  anything, 
but  do  something!  The  same  unhappiness  may 
come  at  any  time  to  the  young  lady  with  you.  If 
it  ever  does,  I'll  be  glad  to  do  for  her  what  I  ask 
you  to  do  now.  We  men  don't  have  to  fight  to 
protect  our  women  as  much  as  men  used  to,  but 
we're  just  as  ready  to  do  it  when  the  need  comes, 
I  know." 

The  word  "fight"  was  magic;  evidently  Creigh- 
ton was  not  wrong  when  he  said  that  "Jack  the 
Giant  Killer  "  is  a  universal  story. 

It  doesn't  take  long  to  get  an  audience  in  Tomp- 
kins Square,  and  once  Creighton  got  started,  and 

420 


"Practical  Politics" 

found  that  he  was  being  listened  to  with  interest, 
he  forgot  himself  and  let  his  theme  have  sway. 

He  talked  about  the  lack  of  opportunities  for 
girls  like  Sonia.  They  could  understand  that,  here. 
He  told  how  pretty  she  was,  and  how  young, 
and  how,  naturally,  she  was  looking  for  romance. 
All  the  passionate  desire  that  was  in  him  to  reach 
the  hungry  hearts  of  people  with  an  enkindling 
idealism;  all  the  special  earnestness  of  appeal  for 
girls  that  Catherine  had  taught  him;  these  fired 
his  message,  which  his  actor's  art  enabled  him  to 
deliver  with  a  simple  charm  that  held  his  hearers 
spellbound. 

As  he  saw  the  crowd  gathering  he  kept  raising 
his  voice.  But  he  never  shouted.  And  it  was  of 
extraordinary  encouragement  to  him  to  see  per- 
sons on  the  outskirts  straining  to  hear.  He  was 
adept  in  placing  his  voice.  He  managed  so  that 
every  one  who  wanted  to  hear  could  hear.  But 
he  let  the  newcomers  begin  with  making  an  effort. 
He  knew  the  value  of  curiosity. 

When  the  crowd  was  large  enough  and  intent 
enough  for  his  purpose,  he  made  an  end  of  all 
generalizing  and  told  Sonia's  story  briefly  but  with 
a  tragic  power  that  was  enormously  compelling. 
He  omitted  reference  of  any  sort  to  Lucius  or  to 
any  influential  friends  of  Catherine's  who  might 
have  helped  her.  He  let  her  stand  forth  simply  as 
the  daughter  of  the  tenements  she  was,  unaided 

421 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

in  her  fight  to  save  her  sister.  He  told  of  the 
inactivity  of  the  police.  They  knew  something 
about  that,  here  in  the  neighborhood  of  Tompkins 
Square.  Then  he  explained  why  the  police  dared 
not  find  Sonia. 

"Perhaps  just  for  this  one  girl's  rescue,  I  might 
not  dare  to  come  to  you,"  he  said.  "But  I  think 
I  should  dare — even  for  that.  Men — real  men — 
will  fight  for  one  girl's  wrongs  as  hard  as  they'll 
fight  the  wrongs  of  many.  This  is  for  the  wrongs 
of  many,  though!  There  isn't  a  day  that  some- 
body's daughter  and  somebody's  sister  and  some- 
body's sweetheart  isn't  fed  to  the  wolves. 

"We  haven't  much  power — alone — any  of  us. 
I'm  only  a  man  out  of  work.  I'm  nothing  at 
Police  Headquarters  or  at  City  Hall.  But  I  have 
a  vote — one  little  vote.  Each  of  you  men  has  a 
vote.  All  I  could  do  to  help  get  Sonia  back  was 
to  say  that  I'd  register  my  protest  at  Headquarters 
and  that  I'd  get  every  other  man  I  could  to  do  the 
same.  That's  what  I  ask  of  you;  just  a  word, 
to  say  that  you're  not  supporting  this  traffic  in 
girlhood.  One  protest  doesn't  count.  Maybe  a 
hundred  protests  won't  count.  But  a  thousand 
will — especially  if  each  of  us  makes  it  plain  that  he 
is  trying  to  get  others — many  others.  Maybe  you 
can't  go  to  make  complaint.  A  penny  post-card 
will  do  just  as  well.  There  isn't  a  man  here  who 
will  refuse  to  write  a  penny  post-card  to  Police 

422 


As  he  saw  the  crowd  gatnering  he  kept  raising  his  voice.     But  he 
never  shouted 


"Practical  Politics" 

Headquarters,  Mulberry  Street,  and  say  'Find 
Sonia.'  That's  all  you  need  to  say.  I'll  make 
plain  to  them  what  that  means.  Just  write  'Find 
Sonia'  and  sign  your  name  and  address." 

Catherine  was  tugging  at  his  sleeve.  "I  want 
to  speak,"  she  said. 

"Sonia's  sister  wants  to  plead  with  you,"  he 
announced  to  the  crowd. 

He  helped  her  to  stand  upon  a  bench.  Every 
eye  was  strained  to  see  her. 

It  was  drama;  not  acted  drama,  but  the  real 
drama  of  life.  And  here  was  appeal  to  the  be- 
holders to  take  a  part  in  it;  not  merely  to  sit  pas- 
sive and  hear  of  brave  deeds,  but  to  become  actors 
in  a  drama  of  chivalry.  Memories  of  things  read 
— of  great  mediaeval  scenes — thronged  Creighton's 
brain  as  he  listened  to  Catherine;  as  he  looked 
out  upon  the  sea  of  faces  lighted  by  the  arc-lamps 
of  the  square. 

Catherine  had  no  thought  of  self.  He  was 
amazed  at  the  eloquent  power  of  her. 

Her  strong  foreign  accent;  her  poor  clothes; 
her  plain  pale  face  illumined  with  her  burning 
purpose;  the  toil-worn  hands  she  held  out  in  plead- 
ing; all  these  things  helped  her  to  move  her  au- 
dience profoundly. 

"I  come  from  Russia,"  she  said.  "In  Russia 
these  things  happen — the  beast  who  has  official 
power  gets  our  little  sisters — and  we  have  no  re- 

423 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

dress — we  cannot  appeal.  Here  in  our  new  coun- 
try they  happen  also — beasts  are  still  beasts  though 
they  live  here — but  we  can  appeal.  Justice  is  tied 
here  as  there.  But  not  so  strongly  tied.  Here, 
if  one  set  of  men  will  not  give  justice  to  the  people, 
another  set  can  be  put  to  replace  them.  There,  we 
must  remove  cruelty  with  a  bomb.  Here,  you 
may  do  it  with  a  vote.  There,  we  must  make 
tyrants  afraid  with  dynamite.  Here,  you  can  do 
it  with  a  penny  card  on  which  you  write  *  Find 
Sonia.'  It  is  a  country  in  which  every  man  is  free 
to  be  kind  to  other  men.  I  ask  you  men  to  help 
me.  To  help  me  it  is  not  necessary,  as  once  it 
would  have  been  to  rescue  a  maiden  whom  the 
robber  barons  held,  to  take  up  arms;  to  leave  your 
work  and  your  dear  ones;  to  risk  your  lives  storm- 
ing castles  that  bristled  with  archers  or. with  guns. 
Maybe  you  will  not  do  as  I  beg  you  to  do,  because 
it  is  so  easy.  Maybe  you  will  turn  away  and  go 
back  to  your  homes  where  your  own  little  sisters 
are — safe — and  forget." 

"No!   no!"  they  cried. 

Her  tears  of  gratefulness  overflowed.  She  held 
out  her  hands  to  them  with  a  gesture  as  of  thanks 
she  could  not  utter. 

"We  will  go  on  our  way  then,"  Creighton  said, 
addressing  the  crowd  briefly  in  farewell.  "Per- 
haps some  of  you,  too,  will  go  on  and  repeat  the 
story.  Perhaps  the  first  snowfall  will  come  to- 

424 


"Practical  Politics" 

morrow — white  cards,  drifting  in  and  piling  up  in 
heaps  at  Mulberry  Street — white  cards  that  say 
<  Find  Sonia.' " 

They  made  way  respectfully  for  Creighton  and 
Catherine  to  pass,  and  not  a  few  grasped  Cath- 
erine's hand  and  wrung  it  as  she  went  by. 

"There  is  a  square  further  down  town  that  I 
want  to  try,"  Creighton  said  when  they  were  be- 
yond the  dispersing  crowd.  "I  don't  know  the 
name  of  it,  but  it's  below  Grand  Street,  a  block  or 
two,  and  I  think  further  east  than  this  is.  I've 
crossed  it  going  to  the  children's  theatre  in  the 
Educational  Alliance  Building." 

"I  know,"  she  answered.  "There  are  always 
many  people  about  there — and  many  people  to 
whom  one  can  appeal." 

They  were  vastly  encouraged  by  the  reception 
with  which  their  first  effort  had  met.  Ballard 
Creighton  was  quite  carried  away.  Notwithstand- 
ing his  sympathy  for  Catherine — and  it  was  deep 
sympathy,  for  he  loved  her  as  he  had  never  before 
loved  woman — he  was  happy  as  he  had  not  been 
happy  in  his  whole  life  before.  He  saw,  in  a  vision 
of  promise,  the  beginning  of  his  dream  come  true. 

He  began  his  second  appeal  with  confidence. 
He  pleaded  with  an  eloquence  that  was  far  less 
conscious  than  inspired.  Some  men  muttered. 
Many  women  wept. 

"The  hearts  of  men  have  always  been  tender  in 

425 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

response  to  the  cry  of 'Child  lost!"*  he  said.  "Be- 
cause they  have  always  known  that  dangers  lie  in 
wait  for  innocence  and  helplessness.  Most  of  the 
stories  which  have  inspired  the  poets  and  the  ar- 
tists and  the  dramatists,  have  been  stories  of 
brave  men  going  to  the  rescue  of  the  distressed. 
Take,  for  instance,  the  story  of  the  picture  that  is 
said  to  be  the  most  truly  priceless  painting  in  the 
world,  the  canvas  that  is  the  glory  of  Holland. 
Most  people  call  it  'The  Night  Watch/  But 
that  isn't  its  name.  Its  name  is  'The  Sortie  of 
Banning  Cock's  Company/  In  those  days,  when 
Rembrandt  painted  it,  Holland  was  harassed  by 
the  Spaniards.  One  of  the  things  the  Spaniards 
did — those  fierce  and  cruel  Spanish  soldiers  far 
away  from  their  own  womenkind — was  to  snatch 
the  girls  of  Holland  and  bear  them  off  to  their 
own  camps  for  prey.  Banning  Cock  was  captain 
of  a  militia  or  citizens'  volunteer  company  which 
answered  at  any  time  a  call  of  distress  and  went 
to  the  rescue.  ...  I  wonder  if  any  of  you  lived, 
when  you  were  younger,  in  a  small  town — just  a 
few  little  houses,  maybe,  huddling  together;  and 
all  around  and  about,  the  wide  prairie  or  the  deep 
forest.  And  on  a  night  when  you  were  a  little 
boy  and  were  sitting  down  to  your  good  hot  sup- 
per in  the  snug  kitchen,  where  the  lamplight  shone 
on  all  the  dear  faces  about  the  family  table,  did 
ever  a  white-faced  man,  with  frightened,  troubled 

426 


"Practical  Politics" 

eyes,  come  to  the  door  and  tell  in  a  voice  hoarse 
with  anxiousness  that  his  little  girl  hadn't  come 
home  ?  And  did  your  father — your  big,  brave 
father — without  waiting  to  eat  a  bite  or  to  do  a 
chore  or  anything;  did  he  go  out  to  the  barn  and 
light  his  lantern  and  join  the  search  ?  And  did 
your  mother  and  you  and  the  other  children,stand 
at  the  windows  for  hours  and  watch  the  many, 
many  lanterns  of  the  searchers  shining  and  dim- 
ming in  the  forest  or  on  the  plain  like  fireflies  on  a 
summer  evening  ?  And  did  some  one  come  to  your 
house,  as  the  night  wore  on,  and  summon  your 
dear  tender  mother,  with  all  her  power  to  comfort 
and  to  sustain,  to  come  to  the  frantic  mother  of 
the  little  girl  who  was  lost  ?  Did  mother  hug  you 
tight — oh,  very,  very  tight! — for  a  second  when  she 
kissed  you  and  told  you  to  be  a  good  boy  while  she 
was  gone  ?  And  after  she  had  left  you,  did  you 
children  talk  in  terrified  whispers  of  the  bears  and 
wolves — the  Indians — the  gypsies  ?  Did  you  shiver 
with  dread  lest  they  get  your  dear  brave  father 
too?  ...  Men,  I  am  that  neighbor  who  comes 
and  says  a  little  girl  is  lost.  Is  there  a  man  here 
who  won't  help  to  find  Sonia?" 

When  he  spoke  of  the  tied  hands  of  the  police, 
he  mentioned  no  party  names,-  referred  to  no  in- 
dividuals, but  every  one  knew  whom  he  meant. 
A  municipal  election  that  had  racked  the  borough 
was  just  over. 

427 


Children  of  ToMorrow 

''We  do  things  otherwise  than  as  our  fathers  did," 
he  said.  "We  no  longer  take  our  lanterns  down 
and  go  out  all  night  to  look.  We  hire  such  things 
done  for  us.  We  elect  men  to  see  that  they  are 
done.  Sometimes  the  results  are  about  the  same 
as  if  our  fathers  had  stayed  at  home  and  supped 
comfortably  and  said,  'Let  the  wolves  find  her!' 
Nothing  made  of  human  flesh  could  have  done 
that,  you  think.  Can  you,  then,  go  to  your  homes 
and  say,  'Let  the  wolves  find  Sonia'?" 

As  he  and  Catherine  walked  away  to  plead  else- 
where, a  missile  thrown  with  unerring  aim  flew  out 
of  the  dispersing  crowd  and  struck  Creighton  in 
the  back  of  the  head,  just  about  the  base  of  the 
brain;  it  was  a  jagged  piece  of  granite  paving 
block  and  the  gash  it  cut  was  horrible. 

"Who  threw  it?"  a  hundred  voices  demanded. 
But  if  any  knew  he  did  not  tell. 

Some  pensioner  of  the  wolves  had  struck  for 
them  and  they  would  give  him  cover  and  reward. 

At  ten  o'clock  Catherine  telephoned  from  the 
hospital  to  Rose  and  Davy.  They  answered  that 
they  would  come  at  once.  When  they  got  there, 
Davy  was  surprised  not  to  find  Lucius. 

"Couldn't  you  get  him?"    he  asked  Catherine. 

"  I  didn't  try,"  she  said. 

Before  she  could  object  he  was  away  to  find  a 
'phone. 

428 


'  Practical  Politics" 

Lucius  came  about  eleven  o'clock.  In  the  sad 
necessity  of  explaining  to  him  how  Creighton  had 
been  laid  low,  it  was  several  minutes  before  they 
— but  not  before  he — noticed  that  Catherine  had 
effaced  herself. 

When  Davy  went  for  her  she  came  quietly. 
This  was  no  time  or  place  for  personal  grievances. 

The  doctors  said  there  was  no  chance  that 
Creighton  would  recover  consciousness.  The  won- 
der was  that  he  had  not  died  instantly. 

When  Lucius  had  come  to  stay  with  the  two 
girls  and  be  near  Creighton  while  the  spark  of  life 
lingered,  Davy  hastened  down  town. 

"There  is  one  thing  I  can  do,"  he  told  them. 
"I  can't  do  a  thing  to  keep  him  with  us — but  I 
can  do  something — thank  God! — to  make  his  go- 
ing tell" 

About  midnight  the  nurse  signed  to  Rose  and 
Catherine.  Involuntarily  they  dropped  upon 
their  knees  and  bowed  their  heads.  A  soul — a 
big  soul,  strong  with  love — was  passing.  Eternity 
was  close.  Another  world  lay  near — so  near.  A 
fluttering  breath,  and  he  was  gone.  The  room 
was  strangely  sacred.  Something  had  gone  out 
of  it — but  not  to  die! 

Lucius  stood  at  the  window  looking  out.  The 
girls  could  not  be  sure  if  he  knew  Creighton  was 
gone.  Catherine  touched  his  elbow  and  he  turned 

429 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

to  her.  She  took  his  hand  and  led  him  to  the  bed. 
Rose  was  closing  the  brown  eyes  that  had  seen  so 
many  visions,  and  that  had  opened  wonderingly 
after  that  last  breath  as  if  to  emit  one  flash  of  the 
new  radiance. 

"He  thought  he  didn't  believe  the  Gospel  of 
Love,"  she  sobbed,  her  tears  falling  on  the  still 
white  face.  "  But  'greater  love  hath  no  man  than 
this'- 

"I'll  try  to  finish  what  he  laid  down,"  Lucius 
McCurdy  murmured.  "But  God  knows  I  am 
not  worthy  to!" 


43° 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

"WHAT  A  BRAVE  ADVENTURE  LIFE  is" 

DAVY  was  able,  as  he  had  said,  to  make 
Creighton's  death  tell.  He  ignored  all  news- 
paper traditions  of  "scoop"  and  gave  it  as  he 
alone  knew  it,  freely  to  all.  He  could  hope  for 
only  a  colorless  handling  from  some  of  the  papers; 
he  knew  that  from  some  he  must  expect  a  cruel 
distortion  of  the  truth.  But  he  aroused  interest 
enough  so  that  the  "  Find  Sonia"  story  got  to  many 
scores  of  thousands  of  readers  the  next  morning, 
and  by  late  afternoon  the  cards  were  piled  in 
drifts  at  Mulberry  Street. 

Also,  in  due  time,  the  dream  that  Creighton  had 
dreamed  was  eloquently  told  in  print;  and  of  the 
many  persons  who  responded  with  enthusiasm  to 
its  appeal,  there  were  a  few  whose  interest  lasted 
longer  than  a  momentary  burst. 

Sonia  came  home.  And  it  was  her  exceeding 
good  fortune  to  come  home  to  a  sister  who  realized 
that  her  return  was  not  an  end,  but  a  beginning. 

Catherine  was  far  too  wise  to  imagine  for  a  mo- 
ment that  the  problem  of  Sonia's  future  was  solved 
when  Sonia  was  found.  She  knew  Sonia's  mind, 
its  processes  of  thought,  its  limitations;  and  she 

431 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

knew  that  if  this  experience  had  in  some  ways 
frightened  and  revolted  Sonia,  in  other  ways  it 
had  opened  her  eyes  to  certain  possibilities.  If  she 
went  back,  now,  to  a  dull  routine  of  work,  she 
would  inevitably  compare  what  she  had  to  give, 
there,  for  meagre  living  and  few  pleasures,  with 
what  she  could  earn  in  another  pursuit.  Even 
granting  that  both  ways  were  distasteful  to  her, 
she  would  probably  choose  that  one  in  which  the 
rewards  were  larger.  Nor  was  she  of  a  type  to  be 
appealed  to  by  any  proof,  however  positive,  of  the 
brevity  of  folly's  day  and  the  squalor  of  its  finish. 
She  was  determined  to  have  her  fling  while  youth 
pulsed  in  her  veins  and  her  desires  were  strong. 
As  well  preach  thoughtful  consideration  of  the 
morning  to  the  moth  that  hovers  round  the  flame, 
as  preach  any  outlook  upon  the  day  after  to-mor- 
row to  Sonia — mad  with  ardor  for  to-day. 

Something  must  be  found  for  Sonia  to  do  which 
would  entertain  her  even  to  the  point  of  being 
exciting.  And  the  only  possible  combination  of 
work  and  interest  that  Catherine  could  think  of 
for  Sonia  was  the  chorus. 

She  appealed  to  Rose.  Rose  said  that  her  ac- 
quaintance in  musical  comedy  circles  was  exceed- 
ingly limited;  in  fact,  she  knew  only  one  person 
who  had  any  connection  therewith.  That  per- 
son, however,  was  an  excellent  one  for  their  pur- 
pose. She  was  a  girl  who  had  gone  into  light 

432 


"What  a  Brave  Adventure  Life  Is" 

opera  deliberately,  as  a  career — a  college-bred  girl, 
with  no  talent  for  many  of  the  things  her  class- 
mates were  qualifying  in,  and  a  decided  talent  for 
entertainment.  From  having  been  the  star  per- 
former in  all  the  lighter  college  plays  and  the 
"preferred  jester"  at  all  college  sprees,  she  had 
gone  in  a  most  matter-of-fact  way  about  the  busi- 
ness of  making  her  comedy  gifts  and  her  musical 
education  productive  of  bread  and  butter.  She 
wasn't  a  star — at  least,  as  she  herself  put  it,  "if  I 
am,  I'm  so  far  off  that  I'm  in  the  Milky  Way:  in- 
distinguishable from  the  others  of  like  sort  around 
me" — but  she  had  progressed  beyond  the  chorus 
and  her  prospects  were  good. 

She  was  playing  in  Chicago  just  then.  Rose 
wrote  to  her  about  Sonia. 

"Hurrah!"  she  replied.  " I  am  so  interested  in 
that  sister  who  looks  upon  the  chorus  as  a  safe  re- 
treat, that  there's  hardly  anything  I  can  do  that  I 
won't  do  for  Sonia.  I  never  expected  to  meet  with 
such  sagacity  in  a  '  rank  outsider.'  Understand  me ! 
I'm  not  saying  that  the  chorus  is  anything  like 
Eden  before  the  apple  episode.  But  I  do  say 
that  that  girl  Catherine  has  got  a  right  idea.  A 
girl  in  the  chorus  of  a  decent  'show*  has  at  least  as 
good  a  chance  to  size  up  'the  foolishness  of  folly* 
as  any  one  ever  gets;  and  the  opportunities  to  side- 
step the  narrow  path  don't  get  to  her  a  bit  easier 
or  oftener  than  they  do  to  the  stenographer  or  the 

433 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

girl  who  sells  hats  or  the  trained  nurse  or — hush! 
but  this  is  the  bitter  truth — than  to  the  girl  who 
sings  in  church  quartettes.  .  .  .  Tell  Sonia  to 
take  a  lesson  or  two  in  carrying  a  tune,  and  about 
three  lessons  in  prancing — she  may  call  it  dancing, 
if  she  prefers;  I  don't,  since  I've  seen  Genee. 
After  that,  if  she's  pretty  and  her  figure's  good,  the 
rest  ought  to  be  easy.  There's  a  famine  in  chorus 
ladies,  especially  in  those  who  will  go  on  the  road. 
When  we  leave  here,  we'll  have  probably  a  dozen 
defections.  I'll  speak  to  the  manager  and  see  if 
Sonia  could  be  examined  by  the  New  York  office 
and  sent  on  here.  If  she  comes,  I'll  do  my  best 
to  make  Catherine  glad  she  reposed  faith  in  the 
maligned  chorus." 

The  lessons  were  promptly  begun.  And  Johnny 
was  besought  to  search  among  his  wide  acquaint- 
ance for  some  one  who  could  bring  pressure  to 
bear  on  that  "New  York  Office." 

In  two  weeks  Sonia  was  ready  to  start  West. 
She  was  radiantly  happy  and,  apparently,  without 
either  a  regret  or  a  misgiving. 

Lucius  and  Catherine  saw  her  aboard  her  train. 
When  it  had  pulled  out  Catherine  stood  looking 
after  it  with  wistful  straining  eyes. 

Lucius  did  not  urge  her  to  come  away,  but  waited 
until  she  turned  to  him  and  signified  her  willing- 
ness. Then  they  went  back  to  the  ferry-house  and 
waited  for  the  first  Twenty-third  Street  boat. 

434 


'What  a  Brave  Adventure  Life  Is" 

There  had  been  practically  no  intimate  talk  be- 
tween them  since  Creighton  died.  On  that  night, 
while  yet  they  were  at  the  hospital,  Catherine  had 
said:  "I  misjudged  you.  Forgive  me,  please." 
And  he  had  replied  to  her  with  a  look,  a  pressure  of 
her  hand. 

Then  came  many  things  to  think  about  besides 
themselves:  Creighton's  burial;  Sonia's  return; 
talk  with  persons  interested  in  the  account  of  what 
Creighton  had  wanted  to  do,  and  anxious  to  know 
how  it  might  be  carried  into  effect;  preparations 
for  Sonia's  immediate  future;  Catherine's  re- 
moval to  new  quarters  which  were  Sonia's  also  for 
a  while;  some  effort — as  opportunity  allowed — to 
go  on  with  the  proof-reading;  and  lastly,  it  was 
being  urged  upon  Catherine  by  some  who  had 
heard  her  plea  in  Tompkins  Square,  that  she  might 
easily  qualify  herself  to  do  a  much-needed  work 
for  and  among  "the  little  daughters  of  the  tene- 
ments" by  speaking  to  them  of  their  dangers  and 
for  them  to  those  who  should  hold  their  welfare 
at  heart. 

Lucius  was  aware  of  her  problems,  but  she  was 
unaware  of  his.  Beyond  his  grief-stricken  pledge 
at  Creighton's  bedside,  there  had  been  no  word 
from  him  touching  the  future. 

To-night,  as  they  faced  homeward  after  seeing 
Sonia  off,  was  the  first  real  opportunity  they  had 
had  to  come  to  an  understanding  of  each  other. 

435 


Children  of  ToMorrow 

When  the  boat  came  in  (the  Jersey  tunnels  were 
open,  but  they  preferred  the  ferry)  they  walked 
quickly  through  the  cabins  and  out  to  the  forward 
deck.  The  night  was  clear  and  crisp.  The  magic 
of  the  scene  outspread  before  them  was  such 
as,  to  fine,  apperceiving  souls,  can  never  become 
common.  The  dark  river  was  jewelled  with  the 
lights  of  many  moving  craft.  On  its  farther  shore 
the  great  Cliff  City  blazed,  a  miracle  of  man's  dar- 
ing and  enduring.  In  docks  they  passed  on  their 
lumbering  way  across  the  river,  lay  vessels  of 
enormous  bulk  which  maintained  commerce  with 
all  the  world.  Electric  signs  flashed  in  a  com- 
petition for  greatest  brilliance  that  threatened  to 
go  on  unendingly  until  there  should  be  no  more 
night.  Tower  soared  above  tower  into  the  sky; 
and  above  them  all,  as  above  the  crumbled  majesty 
of  Tyre  and  Babylon  and  Corinth  and  Thebes: 
the  Pleiades  and  Taurus,  Capella  and  the  Twins, 
Andromeda  and  Perseus,  Polaris  and  the  Great 
and  Little  Bears;  friends  of  the  nomad  camel 
men,  guides  of  the  men  that  rove  the  seas,  "  sheep 
shepherded  beyond  all  change  or  chance,  moving 
orderly  from  a  dawn  a  million  years  far  off  to  a 
quiet  fold  a  million  years  away." 

For  a  few  minutes  Lucius  and  Catherine  were  silent 
— companionably  silent — hanging  together  over  the 
boat's  rail  and  watching  the  scene  outspread. 

Then  Lucius  spoke.     "Catherine,"  he  asked, 

436 


"What  a  Brave  Adventure  Life  Is" 

"how  is  it  with  us?  Are  you  ever  going  to  give 
me  your  faith  again  ?" 

She  did  not  answer  him  immediately.  "I 
think,"  she  said  at  length,  "  that  before  I  tell  you 
that,  I  must  know  what  there  will  be  for  me  to 
found  my  faith  upon.  But  if,"  she  went  on  ten- 
derly, "you  had  asked  me  a  different  question  I 
could  have  given  you  a  different  answer — for  I 
have  loved  you  all  the  time." 

Encouraged  by  this  assurance,  Lucius  went  on 
to  tell  her  of  his  hopes,  his  plans.  What  he  was 
fearful  of  was  that  she  would  consider  no  future 
with  him  unless  he  consented  to  abandon  his  po- 
litical ambition,  but  to  his  surprise  she  made  no 
reference  to  this. 

Finally  he  himself  broached  the  subject. 

"I  shall  surprise  you,"  she  admitted.  "For  I 
have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I  must  not  in- 
terfere. In  many  ideals  I  think  we  are  one.  If 
there  are  some  that  we  shall  never  share,  perhaps 
in  that  we  shall  be  the  better  for  each  other.  You 
must  show  me  why  I  should  believe  in  some  of 
your  ideas — not  ideals,  but  ideas  of  how  to  make 
the  ideals  come  true — and  I  must  show  you  why 
I  believe  in  mine.  So  long  as  I  am  persuaded 
that  you  mean  right,  I  shall  not  presume  to  say 
how  you  must  do  it.  When  I  no  longer  can  be- 
lieve you  are  doing  the  best  you  can,  then  I — then 
I  mustn't  love  you  any  more." 

437 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

"But  you  just  said,"  he  reminded  her  with  a 
happy  lover's  daring,  "that  you  loved  me  even 
when  you — when  you  didn't  believe." 

She  smiled  up  at  him.  "I  know  I  did,"  she 
answered  softly;  "and  that's  just  how  it  is  with 
me.  I  have  my  fine  philosophy  of  how  I  ought 
to  do;  that's  in  my  head.  But  in  my  heart's  a  love 
that  will  love  you  till  I  die." 

New  Year's  Eve  was  a  time  especially  dear  to 
the  Inneses.  Rose  in  particular  had  for  the 
year's  close  a  strong  and  tender  sentiment;  the 
boys  used  to  declare,  teasingly,  that  it  was  because 
of  her  Memoirs. 

"Rose  takes  inventory  every  December  thirty- 
first,"  Johnny  said,  "and  gloats  over  the  accom- 
plishments of  her  friends  as  a  merchant  might 
gloat  over  his  year's  sales." 

Rose  admitted  the  gloating.  "I  love  the  *  re- 
membering,' "  she  assented ;  "  and  the  casting  of 
accounts.  I  love  the  looking  forward  and  the 
high  hopes.  And  I  am  proud  to  brew  my  claret 
punch  on  New  Year's  Eve  for  so  many  persons 
whose  ledgers  for  the  year  past  show  the  world 
in  debt  to  them,  and  whose  hopes  for  the  year 
to  come  are  such  splendid  hopes  that  it's  like  hav- 
ing wings  to  share  them." 

There  was  an  inspiration  in  beginning  the  New 
Year  with  Rose's  faith  and  her  claret  punch. 

438 


"What  a  Brave  Adventure  Life  Is" 

Every  one  who  loved  her  wanted  to  be  with  her 
at  that  time. 

This  year  they  were  to  be  there  as  usual:  Ansel 
Rodman  and  little  Mr.  Penhallow;  Oswald  Seever 
and  Sam  Hamilton;  Mary  Todd  and  Georgie 
Wadsworth  (Georgie  was  editorial  adviser  for  one 
of  the  big  publishing  houses,  and  was  said  to  have 
discovered  and  developed  more  geniuses  than  any- 
body else  in  the  publishing  world.  She  was  a  great 
souled  woman  whose  touchstone  for  the  discovery 
of  a  precious  presence  was:  "Merit  consists  not 
in  the  absence  of  faults,  but  in  the  presence  of  vir- 
tues"); Nat  Thayer,  painter,  and  Ward  Lam- 
son,  sculptor,  whose  imagination  took  the  loftiest 
flights  of  any  man  in  this  present  whose  expression 
is  in  clay.  Thayer  and  Lamson  were  married 
and  would  bring  their  wives;  Sam  Hamilton  was 
glad  to  act  as  escort  for  Miss  Todd — not  for  senti- 
mental reasons,  because  she  was  fully  ten  years  his 
senior,  but  because  he  admired  her  tremendously 
and  enjoyed  her  company  better  than  any  other  he 
knew;  "Os"  Seever  was  happy  to  call  for  Miss 
Wadsworth;  Johnny  would  be  down  about  eleven, 
bringing  Emily;  Lucius  and  Catherine,  who  had 
been  married  Christmas  Day,  were  back  from 
their  brief  tour  and  were  coming  up;  Ansel  Rod- 
man had  volunteered  to  call  for  Mrs.  Bristow. 

But  Rose  thought  it  would  make  Mrs.  Bristow 
feel  better  if  Davy  went  after  her.     So  Davy  went. 

439 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

About  ten  o'clock  Bruce  Norbury  arrived. 

Rose  had  finished  her  housewifely  preparations 
and  was  sitting  by  the  living-room  fire. 

She  got  up  from  the  depths  of  the  English 
"wing"  chair  when  Bruce  entered,  and  he  thought 
he  had  never  seen  anything  richer  in  charm  than 
the  picture  that  met  his  eye. 

There  had  been  an  exquisite  snowfall,  and  the 
square  was  blanketed  in  white;  through  the  win- 
dow back  of  Rose  one  got  glimpses  of  trees  plumed 
in  downy  softness,  of  roofs  rimmed  with  unsullied 
snow.  At  her  feet  the  firelight  played,  throwing 
enchanting  shadows  into  the  room.  Candles  in 
wall  sconces  flamed  under  soft  yellow  shades;  but 
on  the  mantel  two  tall  altar  lights  burned  and  were 
reflected  in  the  mirror  back  of  them.  Goitie  Moi- 
phy,  wearing  a  pink  bow,  was  on  the  hearth-rug. 

The  setting  was  perfect:  the  high-backed  chairs; 
the  richness  of  old  mahogany;  the  soft  lights; 
the  shadows  where  fancy  played;  the  dining  table 
beyond,  with  its  burden  of  good  cheer;  the  atmos- 
phere of  fine  thought  and  tender  affection;  the 
fragrance  of  flowers;  the  fruity  flavor  of  Rose's 
brew  of  punch.  But  no  setting,  Bruce  thought, 
could  enhance  the  loveliness  of  the  jewel. 

Rose  was  very  beautiful  to-night.  She  had  on 
a  gown  that  just  touched  the  floor  all  round  and 
set  off  delicately  the  girlishness  of  her  slight  figure. 
The  gown  was  fashioned  of  soft  satin  the  shade  of 

440 


"What  a  Brave  Adventure  Life  Is" 

a  rich  Killarney  rose;  but  this  deep  pink  was 
veiled  in  chiffon  the  color  of  London  smoke. 
Against  this  her  fair  skin  and  pale  brown  hair 
showed  enchantingly.  The  gown  was  not  decol- 
lete, but  collarless,  and  about  her  neck  Rose  wore 
a  quaint-looking  necklace  of  old  silver  and  pink 
abalone  pearl. 

A  keenly  critical  feminine  eye  could  have  seen 
that  the  little  gown  was  only  a  rather  humble 
copy  of  some  French  "masterpiece";  but  to  the 
eye  that  loved  beauty,  and  loved  Rose,  the  gown 
was  exquisite.  .  .  .  And  in  her  hair  she  wore  a 
Killarney  rose,  half-blown. 

Bruce  was  unconscious  of  adding  to  the  picture; 
but  he  did.  His  long  lean  figure  looked  admirable 
in  evening  clothes  and  he  was,  with  all  his  in- 
tensely masculine  virility,  his  love  of  the  open,  his 
zest  for  things  strange  and  new,  the  sort  of  man 
who  belonged — part  of  his  time,  at  least — in  a  set- 
ting of  this  sort  quite  as  much  as  Rose  herself  did ; 
for  he  was  of  that  type,  not  common  in  America, 
which  has  learned  how  to  balance  a  love  of  the 
graces  of  living  with  a  love  of  things  that  are  strong 
and  not  beautiful;  and  the  result  was  that  he  was 
neither  a  dilettante  nor  a  boor.  And  he  looked 
just  this  that  he  was.  He  seemed  at  home  in  Rose's 
candle-lighted  drawing-room  and  in  his  perfectly 
cut  evening  clothes.  But  it  was  easy  to  imagine  him 
in  khaki  and  helmet,  pressing  eagerly  on  toward 

44 i 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

some  prize  of  discovery  or  of  conquest,  fighting  a 
good  fight  for  the  things  worth  while  in  peace  or 
in  war. 

"Who's  coming?"  he  asked  Rose  when  they 
had  exchanged  greetings. 

She  began  to  enumerate:  "The  close  and  par- 
ticular few,  of  course — like  Ansel  Rodman  and 
Sam  Hamilton  and  Mary  Todd,  and  Lucius  and 
Catherine.  (Catherine  is  going  to  have  Mollie, 
did  you  know?)  Then  there'll  be  Johnny  and 
Emily;  and  Mrs.  Bristow —  Davy's  gone  after  her 
now " 

Bruce  looked  down  at  her  understandingly,  but 
made  no  comment. 

"Francis  Hoag  is  coming,"  she  went  on.  Hoag 
was  a  playwright  with  a  remarkable  "punch,"  and 
was  doing  as  much  as  any  man  in  his  vigorous 
and  fearless  set,  to  use  the  drama  as  a  vehicle  for 
the  interpretation  of  modern  life.  "  He's  going  to 
bring  Miss  Brewer."  Miss  Brewer  was  the  star 
who  was  acting  in  Hoag's  most  recently  produced 
play.  "Georgie  Wadsworth  said  she'd  like  to 
bring  Edith  Talbot.  I  don't  know  Miss  Talbot 
well — have  met  her  only  once  or  twice,  and  cas- 
ually at  that;  but  I  admire  tremendously  what 
she's  doing.  It  was  Georgie  who  kind  of  brought 
her  out — you  know — revealed  her  to  herself,  and 
turned  her  from  doing  fair  work  with  strong  possi- 
bilities, to  doing  strong  work  which  realized  the 

442 


"What  a  Brave  Adventure  Life  Is" 

possibilities.  And  Georgie  is  the  proudest  person ! 
There  can  never  be  any  discussion  as  to  which 
Georgie  would  rather  do — accomplish  something 
for  herself  or  help  some  one  else  to  do  his  best. 
I'm  going  to  have  a  lovely  time  with  her  in  my 
Memoirs." 

"  I'm  beginning  to  feel  about  your  Memoirs  as  I 
do  about  Mr.  Howells's,"  Bruce  declared.  "I'm 
always  so  sorry  the  people  they  are  about  couldn't 
have  read  them.  Of  course,  he  puts  the  same 
quality  of  exquisite  appreciation  into  his  friend- 
ships day  by  day — as  you  do! — but  there's  always 
something  about  his  tender  summing  up  in  retro- 
spect that  makes  me  sorry  for  the  subject  because 
he  can't  read  it.  I  can't  help  thinking  how  many 
hours  of  deep  discouragement  there  must  have  been 
in  the  life  of  that  man — whichever  one  he  may  be 
— hours  in  which  the  inspiration  of  Mr.  Howells's 
presence  and  faith  were  not  possible.  Wouldn't 
it  have  been  great  if,  when  those  times  came,  he 
could  have  had  the  'Recollections'  to  read?  I 
tell  you  what,  Rose !  If  I  were  you,  Pd  write  my 
Memoirs  now;  add  a  little  to  'em  every  year — 
have  'em  kind  of  serial,  you  know;  and  I'd  give 
or  send  a  copy  on  each  New  Year's  Eve  to  every 
one  I'd  written  about.  Then,  all  the  year  through, 
when  any  one  got  terribly  discouraged — as  we 
know  that  all  achieving  persons  do — he  could  get 
out  his  little  book  and  read  about  himself,  and 

443 


Children  of  To-Morrow 

take  new  courage  to  go  on  and  make  a  record  for 
you  to  put  in  the  next  year's  volume !  Honest  In- 
jun!— as  you  like  to  say — there's  a  real  idea  for 
you." 

He  was  in  earnest.  Rose  smiled  up  at  him,  but 
not  mockingly.  "It  would  be  a  real  idea — if  I 
could  write,"  she  agreed.  "But  I  can't." 

"You  don't  know  whether  you  can  or  not," 
Bruce  cried.  "Ellen  Terry  thought  she  couldn't. 
But  who  would  wish  to  read  anything  more  de- 
lightful than  her  Memoirs?" 

"Not  I,"  Rose  answered.     "Maybe  I'll  try." 

In  the  square  the  revellers  were  blowing  horns 
and  making  other  noises  of  acclaim  to  the  New 
Year.  Most  of  these  revellers  were  on  their  way 
up  town  to  join  the  throngs  that  jam  Broadway 
after  the  theatres  are  out. 

"I  wonder,"  Rose  mused,  "if  they're  really  eager 
for  the  new  year — all  fresh  and  untarnished  and 
full  of  promise — or  if  they  blow  horns  just  be- 
cause they  like  the  noise?" 

"Some  of  each,  I  reckon,"  he  replied.  "It's 
human  nature  to  welcome  the  new,  the  untried. 
I  suppose  that's  as  it  should  be.  Life  is  an  ad- 
venture for  each  one  of  us.  With  all  that  the 
others  have  done  who  have  gone  ahead  of  us, 
breaking  the  trail,  the  whole  journey  is  pretty  near 
pioneering  for  every  one.  Some  people  think  the 
world  gets  old.  It  doesn't.  It's  new  every  day. 

444 


"What  a  Brave  Adventure  Life  Is" 

I  wish  I  knew  how  to  make  folks  believe  it!  I 
tell  you,  I  envy  the  men  and  women  who  can." 

"I  think  you  do  make  folks  believe  it,"  Rose 
declared.  "Not  a  great  many  folks,  perhaps,  be- 
cause you  don't  express  yourself  in  a  medium  that 
reaches  multitudes.  But  you  attest  to  every  one 
who  knows  you  what  a  brave  adventure  life  is,  and 
how  full  of  treasures  to  be  sought  for.  .  .  .  And  I 
don't  know  what  any  one  can  do  more  than  that." 

"And  you  think  I  do  it?"  he  murmured,  bend- 
ing over  her. 

"  I  think  you  do,"  she  answered  softly. 

"  Rose,"  he  entreated,  "  before  the  others  come, 
let  me  tell  you  my  dream  for  the  year  we  shall  wel- 
come in.  There'll  be  brave  dreams  in  the  hearts 
here  to-night  as  the  bells  peal  and  the  whistles 
blow.  But  I  think  there  won't  be  any  dream  so 
sweet  as  mine — there  couldn't  be!  For  my 
dream's  all  of  you — dear  'Rose-of-all-the-world.'" 

Rose's  mouth  was  tremulous;  she  could  not 
speak.  But  she  looked  up  at  him  with  shining 
eyes  whose  light  was  unmistakable.  .  .  . 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  key  in  the  frontdoor 
lock  and  Davy  came  in;  Davy  and  Mrs.  Bristow. 


445 


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